


5 Thomas Lane

by ChutJeDors



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 90's AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Modern AU, Old Married Couple, and I love it, dad! George and Ringo, dad!John and Paul, necessary warnings are in the beginning of every chapter, somehow i always forget that i write starrison fics too, the fandom needed a boring old married couple fic so i wrote it, there's no plot........ it's just paul and john being married with kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-03-24 20:18:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 119,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13818678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChutJeDors/pseuds/ChutJeDors
Summary: There is Dave with teenage angst; there's Vera with her sense of justice; there's Chuck with his love for all things Disney. Then there is Martha, a dog who is often mistaken for a rug; there are Pyramus and Thisbe, two fat, old cats, who resemble pillows more than actual, living beings.And then there are John and Paul, who somehow manage to keep the chaos at bay.Aka that modern au where Paul and John are an old married couple, have kids, and live chaotic, good life. No plot - just boring, perfect everyday life on Thomas Lane, Liverpool.





	1. Introduction... And I Loved You, Ugly Rug

**Author's Note:**

> So! A some time go I wrote a one-shot called _Have Some Spotted Dick, Dear_. That woke up a need in me to write more about that family, and as such this was born. It is my child, and I love it.
> 
> I'm writing separate chapters/one-shots about their everyday family life - there's no bigger plot, and updating this will be irregular. I don't know if I'm ever reaching the end, but it's not really necessary either... I'll write as long as text keeps coming.
> 
> The original one-shot has been incorporated into this fic. This is written as pure fun, out of love for the characters, and in the means of parodising basic family life. Hope you'll enjoy reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Many thanks to Puck for mental support xx ily mate
> 
> [ _A Spotify playlist to get that best warm and fuzzy feeling out of this fic_ ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/75NYFJuYA20adYpkIw2lbD)

_Having children had never been a requirement for John to live happily ever after. He would, however, be completely fine with one or two if his future partner wanted them, and he would love the kids with all his heart (if they weren’t absolutely terrible)._

_For Paul, it was The Requirement. And so his answer was no surprise when John popped the ultimate question, the millennia changing, their friends forgetting the gorgeous fireworks that were exploding in front of them as they looked at the couple with their mouths open._

_“Y’know… They have to change the law someday, so… would you stick by me till that date, and then wear a pink dress for me?”_

_The most ridiculously sappy thing about it was that Paul didn’t even **pretend** to hesitate._

_“Sure. If I get to be ‘Pop’.”_

***~**~***

_When the law changed in 2002 to enable adoption for all couples, Paul and John bought a house with too many bedrooms from Thomas Lane, Liverpool. Three years later they stood in the doorway of “Bedroom 4” together, watching a tiny figure sleep in a tiny bed, covered with a car patterned blanket. John rested his head on Paul’s shoulder, and Paul wrapped an arm around his shoulders._

_“Okay, so you’re Pop, now,” John whispered. “What’s my royal title?"_

_Paul didn’t say anything, since it would’ve come out as a sob, and that just would’ve been embarrassing._

_A year later, much to the chagrin of Dave (4 years old, special skill: Screaming from a very high octave), Vera (2 years old, special skill: Screaming from a very high octave) joined the household. John’s royal title **(“Daaaaad!”)** became so greatly royal that he dropped his steady job as a layout designer and became The Royal Housekeeper, doing freelance work as a side job._

_They registered their relationship and were very happy indeed, even though John always managed to bitch about the fact that they still were not technically married. Paul would hum without saying anything (but he agreed, of course). But the situation was better than it had been back in 2000, and at least they could call each other husbands. Or “registered partners”, as John would say, with the strongest spite ever._

_(Paul would laugh, and kiss him, because at least it was better than having no rights at all.)_

_Chuck arrived almost straight from the womb (2 hours old, special skill: Screaming from a very high octave). John held him with slightly shaking hands, and looked up at Paul with tears in his eyes, which sure was embarrassing._

_“Can I name him after Chuck Norris?” he asked, and the baby let out another karate scream._

_Paul laughed, and cried too, that wimp._

_“If you change the diapers,” he said, and it was a deal._

_One day they got married, and on that day Dave had a flue, Vera almost destroyed the cake by running into it, and Chuck decided during the ceremony that he missed his Thomas the Tank Engine toy so much that he had to share it with everyone right when Paul and John were signing the papers (Special skill: In Full Use.)_

_In overall, a very good day, and not a bad life, either._

***~**~***

Paul should have seen this coming. He really, _really_ should have seen this coming.

He stared at the mess that had overtaken the living room. The hallway had looked innocent enough, but the moment Paul laid his eyes on what used to be a clean, habitable room, it became evident that something like an elephant — or several — had been stomping around. Curtains were drawn in front of the windows, preventing any light from coming in, but much to his chagrin Paul could see the room clearly enough.

The grey leather couch and the two armchairs that usually seemed clean enough were covered in energy drink cans, as was the coffee table. At least one glass had apparently been broken, empty chip bags and popcorn lay all around the couch and the two armchairs, and Paul was _quite_ sure that it was vomit he could distinctively smell, originating heavily from one corner of the room.

The empty water canister, as well as the car keys that he had been carrying fell down on the floor with a clank at the same time as John stepped in, his cottage hat perched on top of his head in a slightly crooked way. On his nose he was sporting his thick-rimmed glasses, and his wrinkled and paint-covered old dress shirt would have told anyone who knew them about the family's previous whereabouts, as well as the sports bag slung over his shoulder and one in his armpit would have, both of them filled with clothes and bedclothes.

“Wassup?” he said. “The car locked itself, that bloody security thing again. I can never figure out how it works… Can you—”

He stopped next to Paul, and stared.

The bag from his armpit fell down.

“What the—” he started, rather loudly, but cut himself off with a hand coming up to cover his nose when the smell of the vomit invaded his nostrils. Almost straight away he started to turn away with his whole upper body suddenly tense, his expression telling something about the thoughts that had started to run through his head. He took two steps to the right, and oh God, Paul _knew_ what John was thinking, and at that moment he started to think about it as well, and he could almost _hear_ the terrified screaming that was currently taking place in John's head — and then the man looked into the kitchen.

The loud groan he let out told Paul _everything_ he needed to know.

“Winnie the Pooh mug is broken,” John moaned and succumbed against the doorframe, his hand falling down limply against his side, the sport bag looking heavier every passing moment. “Oh, Christ, not the _Winnie— JEAN DAVID MCCARTNEY!!!”_

Paul jumped slightly at John’s sudden roar and looked instinctively towards the stairs. His stomach was churning with half-swallowed anger, but moreover he was feeling betrayed. They had _trusted_ Dave — This would be the _last_ time they left the boy on his own for the whole weekend. (No matter _how_ much John said that they could trust him. Oh, John was going to hear about this later.)

“Oh, he’s goin’ down,” John said in his best imitation voice of Kronk’s inner devil from the _Emperor’s New Groove,_ although he sounded a _lot_ more pissed off. He dropped the second sports bag and marched over to the stairs, soon stomping them up with his shoulders held high, fingers squeezed into tight fists.

Paul let out a tired sigh and shook his head to himself. He, too, took a step towards the stairs to stop John from tearing their 15-year-old lad apart, but he was interrupted by the next episode in the soap opera that was called _His Life._

“Daaaad- oh, Pop,” Vera’s bright voice, now marred with annoyance, reached his ears from the door. “Chuck wants to go to the park, but he’s too young, he _can’t_ , I told him but he doesn’t believe me, I said we have to take care of our bags, but he insists, but I _told_ him-”

“Honey,” Paul interrupted, his voice as calm as possible, wondering whether it was still possible to book a childless two-week holiday to the Bahamas that John had been dreaming about for three weeks, now. “You can go into the park with Chuck. I will take care of the bags with Dad.”

Paul dreaded to give permission like that, even though the park was just around the corner, but Vera was a bright girl for a 12-year-old, even though she sometimes succumbed into melodramatics… being especially watchful of Chuck, who at 6 years old naturally couldn’t reach the same heights of intelligence as her, and who, according to her, always got _everything_ before she had. In this situation, though, it was better if Chuck and Vera weren’t here to see the immediate aftermaths of the explosions that had happened in the house. _Especially_ if the Winnie had become a victim.

 _‘Chuck is going to be devastated,’_ Paul thought, shuddering at the thought. He hated seeing his children sad, but even more he hated his ears ringing for days, which _was_ going to happen.

Vera stopped, looking astonished… and jealous.

“He can go without you?! _I_ couldn’t when I was his age—”

 _“Honey,”_ Paul said, his voice reaching a scarily dead intonation. “You didn’t have such a great sibling that would look after you, now did you? Dave wasn’t old enough when you were six. Go with Chuck into the park, and- and take Martha with you, too.”

Vera’s eyes widened, and then her face broke into a grin.

“Oookay!” she exclaimed, jumped, and skipped outside, the door slamming closed behind her as she first called for her brother and then the family's huge dog, named after Martha from _Doctor Who._

“Just don’t lose them!!” Paul yelled after her, and then closed his eyes with a deep breath. He counted to ten, and headed upstairs for whatever damage control was needed at this point.

***~**~***

John pushed himself into a room filled with darkness. The air smelled musty and also something that he could distinctly recognise as socks. He couldn't see much, since the dark blue curtains were tightly drawn over the window, and only a small ounce of light made it through from a small crack. He could hear someone's soft breathing, a sound that was definitely familiar, and he knew that the owner of the room was deep in his golden dreams, unaware of the world.

Without mercy, John flicked the lights on.

“Good afternoon, Dave,” he said in a loud, sweet voice, crossing his arms over his chest. The room looked like a bomb had gone off in there — yesterday's clothes had been discarded in the middle of the floor, next to a pile of game magazines, while a charging phone was safely resting on the nightstand. There was also a lump in the bed that let out a grumble and turned towards the wall, starting to pull the covers up to hide from the bright light.

“You know, when I held secret parties, I at least had the decency to clean up the evidence before my parents got home,” John said and waited, counting in his head.

When he got to seven, the lump jumped up.

 _“Dad-_ SHIT _—”_ Dave started, his eyes shooting wide open, hair sticking up in a rather adorable way as he looked at John. That did not faze John, though — he was fucking _mad_ at the kid. He was also afraid of what Paul would do to _both_ of them, since this was partly John's fault, and he knew it.

“You’re back—”

“Yeah,” John said cheerfully and leaned on the doorway. “Did you remember to feed the cats?”

Dave swallowed, his face paling quickly.

“U-um, yesterday morning, yeah…”

“Good, good,” John said, his smile widening. “So only one day without food. Did you remember the _other_ thing?”

Dave was silent, sitting back on his heels and gathering the bed cover in his hands, almost hugging it.

 _“No parties,”_ John said with a manic voice. “I think you _forgot.”_

“I- Dad- it—” Dave stuttered, and John sighed and shook his head, about to open his mouth, when Paul appeared next to him, eyes wild and lips pressed tightly together.

Dave visibly cowered, something which was slightly offensive to John. Hadn’t he established his place as a scary, strict parent?

Paul looked at Dave, and Dave looked at him, and then turned his gaze away. John knew well how it felt to be in the receiving end of Paul’s scorching expression of _‘I thought I could trust you’._ The immense amount of betrayal that Paul was feeling at the moment was pouring out of him in that extent that John could feel it in his skin (or then it was ants from their two nights at the cottage. You never knew.)

“So,” Paul started, and his voice was oozing death. “Is it cat’s vomit?”

John watched the scene with his stomach slowly falling, dread rising up in his throat, praying that it _would be—_

Dave fidgeted with the bed cover, keeping his eyes down, and then shook his head slowly.

John let out a groan that made even Paul jump, feeling sick.

 _“Seriously,_ Dave? Are you _really_ this stupid to leave— oh, _fuck—”_

He turned on his heels and ran for the stairs. Paul could deal with the 15-year-old grumpy old man — John would deal with the vomit that was _laying on a rug in the living room._

Paul sighed again for what felt like a millionth time and fixed his eyes on Dave. No matter how small the boy looked at the moment, it didn’t change the fact that Paul and John were probably going to have to buy a new rug, and some other things, as well.

“Get yourself up,” he said, tiredness sweeping into his voice. “We’ll talk later — let’s just clean up the house now. There are no bodies anywhere?”

Dave shook his head again, a small, hesitant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“There was, but I buried it in the backyard and gave the rest to the cats.”

Paul, despite the anger and disappointment inside him, grinned slightly and rolled his eyes, turning to head for the stairs.

“At least they’re fed, then,” he said and started descending to downstairs.

 _“They’re NOT!!”_ came John’s outraged voice from the living room, and Paul couldn’t help but chuckle.

Well — it _could’ve_ been worse.

***~**~***

Paul really tried to hang onto that thought when Chuck was wailing in John’s arms over the broken mug. Vera had long ago disappeared into her room, shooting irritated glances at Dave beforehand, and Dave was back to being his grumpy self, the fear and shame he had felt before replaced by overall distaste about anything that his parents wanted.

“We’ll buy you a new Winnie,” John was saying, holding Chuck and looking pained. Whether it was because of Chuck’s heart-wrenching crying, or John’s ears being destroyed, Paul didn’t know. He guessed the latter, because by now they were kind of immune to their children mourning over a piece of broken furniture. Dave had been bad enough with a few lost Pokémon cards.

“But it was m-m-my W-W- _Winniiieee,”_ Chuck more or less screeched. John shot a small glance at Paul that clearly said _‘help’._ Paul subtly inclined his head towards Dave, and John raised his eyebrows slightly in a silent agreement.

“C’mon, buddy,” he said and stood up, their youngest hanging onto him with a killer hold around his neck. “You scared off Martha with your excellent, A+ screaming — let’s go find her, okay?”

He left the room with Chuck’s crying reaching new heights, and then the door closed with a small thud.

Paul turned to Dave, who in turn looked away tactically.

“You know,” Paul said, hating that he had to have this conversation, _hating_ that not only had Dave failed their trust, but also _Paul_ felt like he had failed as a parent by over-estimating how much space they could give to the boy. By doing so, he had managed to get them all into this uncomfortable situation. “It’ll take a long time till we can trust you enough to leave you alone again.”

Dave looked stubbornly at the fridge, mouth set into a tight line.

“There are certain rules in this household that you just _can’t_ break,” Paul said, remembering distinctly that his own father had once used similar kind of words, and how it had felt to be in the receiving end of them.

He hadn’t cared less, and he knew that at the moment, his child was pretty much the same. There were moments when Dave's teenage angst was clearly less severe, but for the past two months the lad's emotional abilities had just been living in a constant depression, and there was really nothing that would go through his thick, broody head.

Paul sighed, already knowing that at the moment, talking to Dave was completely pointless. Paul had never been good at giving speeches that stayed in the boy’s head anyway — John was much better at that. Whether it was the way the man cheerfully mixed swearwords into his speech to emphasise his message, or the fact that he had taken care of the children while Paul was at work, Paul didn’t know. He could set his thoughts better into words, and the things he said were usually better on-point, but… John’s way of talking just suited better for the children, Paul guessed. Maybe he just sounded too teacher-like when he started preaching, and he knew that the kids preferred not to hear that outside school.

“How many people were there?” he asked. “Anyone unfamiliar?”

Dave muttered something gruffly, which Paul took as a _“don’t be stupid, Pop, of course there weren’t”._

Paul inhaled deeply and slowly, a frown between his eyebrows. He tapped at the table with one finger, keeping his eyes on it, trying to contain his burst of anger. Some things just _weren’t_ acceptable.

“Wasn’t—” there was a voice, and suddenly John appeared into the doorway, having dropped Chuck off somewhere. Paul lifted an eyebrow and John waved his hand nonchalantly.

 _“The Aristocats,_ on my computer,” he said, Paul nodding at him quickly. That was always a good way of getting Chuck’s mind away from such pressing things as Winnie’s sudden decease. It was nice, quick thinking from John’s part — how to keep their kid entertained while the living room, aka the TV was off limits. They had cleaned up the energy drink cans, as well as the big shards of glass from the broken glass, but there was quite a lot of vacuuming and scrubbing to do… not to mention disposing of one pile of _vomit._

“So,” John started again and closed the door of the kitchen, effectively blocking Dave’s escape route, “wasn’t Mr. Doudin supposed to call us if he noticed there was a party going on?”

Paul’s eyebrows rose into the ceiling, and he started pulling out his phone, checking to see if he had any missed calls or messages. There were none… he would have to call their old neighbour as soon as possible.

“Yes,” he then said, feeling anger boil in his stomach again — at Dave, at himself, at John, and now at Mr. Doudin as well. He just wanted to blame the world. Ugh, and he had thought to spend a nice Sunday evening with the family, maybe watch a film or so, cuddling up with John on the couch with Chuck between them, since the boy didn't run away from hugs yet, like the other two. “He was.”

John sighed and flopped down into a chair next to Paul, swinging an arm around his shoulders.

“Right. Dave—”

Dave started getting up, but stopped at Paul’s freezing glare.

“Sit down, and this’ll be over soon enough,” John said, his voice slightly more serious than it usually would be. Paul glanced at him, hoping that John would see how tired Paul was, and how much he just wanted to cuddle on the bed and not think about the terrible smell in one corner of the living room.

John acknowledged him with a small squeeze on his shoulder, and then he leaned forward towards Dave, who had sat down again with a scornful expression.

“Y’know, there are things you should do, and then those that you shouldn’t,” John said, his voice over-reasoning. Paul always used to get an inexplicable urge to laugh when he heard that tone, and he hated John for choosing it for this moment. “Like sometimes you should have a secret party — if your parents are stuck up nuns — but then sometimes you shouldn’t, if your parents are cool, like we are.”

Dave snorted and refused to look them in the eye. Paul tried to take mental notes on how to talk like John, who, admittedly, somehow managed to make Dave look like he was listening.

“It’s not about whether nothing happens, or that someone dies,” John continued. “It’s about the fact that we trusted you with the cats, and you _forgot_ to feed them—”

Paul kicked him in the shin, his mouth quivering. Dave, too, looked somewhat amused.

“Anyway,” Paul said before everything got completely out of hand, feeling better now that John was there handling this with him. He hated being the strict parent on his own, and he knew that John hated it as well — but together they could do it just fine, balancing each other’s strictness. It couldn’t have been very amusing for the kids, though, when the two of them teamed together against the youth. “You do understand that we can’t really leave you home alone again, for some time?”

“Yeah,” John nodded along, “just in case someone would try to break in and you’d have to use violent, imaginative ways to try and slaughter them—”

Paul kicked him again, and this time Dave was definitely fighting a smile.

 _“So,”_ Paul said and glared at the two of them, “the next time we go to the cottage, you come with us—”

Dave’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth, but Paul was faster, John nodding next to him to show solidarity.

“—And _no_ buts! We _can’t_ leave you alone!”

“I can go to Grandma and Grandpa!” Dave said immediately, voice accusing, as if John and Paul had just sentenced him into a lifetime of cheesy love songs and mosquitoes, and not just a few days.

“No,” John said and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “You can’t. Next up is summer holiday— they’re in France for God knows how long.”

Dave let out a displeased sound, looking pained. Paul almost repeated the expression at the thought of having this ray of sunshine with them at the small cottage for at least a week — since the beginning of the summer holiday _was_ indeed the next time they would go to the cottage… and since it was a summer holiday, they wouldn’t just spend a few days there, but would try to enjoy their time off as much as possible. He knew that Dave knew that, and… the inevitable storm arrived as soon as the boy’s first shock had disappeared.

“Oh, _fuck you,”_ Dave more or less yelled and marched away like an elephant before neither John or Paul had a chance to call him back.

The door slammed shut and silence took over the kitchen before Paul groaned and John chuckled, both at the same time.

“I would shout _‘go to your room’,_ but he’s probably in there already,” John laughed into his hand, his shoulder jumping up and down. Paul lifted his head up from where it had fallen into his hands, and glanced at his husband with distaste.

“John…”

“C’mon Paul, remember when you were 15? Or your brother?”

Paul sighed, but there was a small smile tugging at his lips. _His_ teenage years might have not been _this_ wild, but he definitely remembered _John’s_ teenage angst, which had, truth to be told, been rather disastrous. Mind you, Paul had just thought he was amazing, and worshipped the ground the man walked upon — still did of course, except when John was being an arse.

“You know I was all about pleasing Mum at that time.”

John shrugged and hummed.

“However,” Paul continued, “it is true that some parts of his frontal lobe are currently going under heavy reconstruction, and as such I can’t condemn his reactions — or words — too hard.”

“Of course you can’t,” John said and leaned his forehead against Paul’s shoulder, taking a deep breath against the man’s shirt. Then, slowly  and quietly, he started giggling until it turned into actual laughter.

“Think about it,” he said, body shaking against Paul’s, slumping on top of his right arm more and more as moments passed. “Energy drinks. _Energy drinks._ These 15-year-olds, loitering about, being all cool, having the party of their lives, with _energy drinks…_ Maybe we should try that. Red bull is cheaper than alcohol.”

Paul laughed and rolled his eyes, swatting John away. The man smelled slightly like paint and sweat, and Paul fantasised about taking a bath with him. Maybe after the children had gone to bed — after they had _cleaned the bloody rug._

“You stink,” he said. “And we got stuff to do.”

“Yeah,” John groaned. “Like disposing of Mr. Doudin’s body. He should’ve noticed that something was going on!”

“Maybe he’s the one buried in the backyard,” Paul said absent-mindedly. John looked at him with confusion, and Paul laughed softly, grasping at his phone again, navigating towards Mr. Doudin's phone number.

“I'll tell you later,” he said as he selected the number and dialled it, lifting the phone to his ear. John nodded, leaning back in his chair, sighing as he rubbed his thighs with both hands.

“Tell me what’s up with Mr. Doudin,” he said and stood up, running a hand through his rather dirty, shaggy hair that definitely needed a cut. “I’ll start vacuuming the living room, then.”

Paul gave him a thumbs up, and John exited the kitchen with a yawn, scratching at his messy head, a palm-sized hole on the inner side of his jeans giving Paul a glimpse at the smooth skin of his thighs.

Paul smiled, shook his head at the man fondly, and concentrated on the call.

***~**~***

It turned out that Mr. Doudin had fell down in his garden Saturday morning while taking care of his plants, and had broken a hip. His daughter had answered the call from the hospital, apologising for any inconveniences it had caused. Paul and John felt worse for Mr. Doudin than for their deceased rug, because after all, a new rug was easier to buy than a new hip. All was good between them and their neighbour again, and the only thing that remained was buying a new rug – or cleaning the old one, which was something both of them _detested._

“It’d be just easier to buy a new one,” John sighed as he scrubbed the light brown, hairy rug with a once glittery, pink sponge that had been dipped in a mix of water, salt, vinegar, laundry detergent, and alcohol. The mix hadn’t let them down but once; the remains of Vera’s McDonald’s meal were still visible in the car seat in front of her. That had been the last time they gave the iPad to her for any journey.

“It's possible we get it off,” Paul said as he scrubbed the remains of a fallen energy drink on the other side of the room, unable to see John, who had kneeled between the couch and the armchair in the very corner of the room to fight against the vomit. Fatigue pressed his eyes, the clock nearing 11pm, but both knew this had to be done now if they ever wanted to get the stains off. “But if the smell remains, I don’t see we have much of a choice.”

“Whose idea it was to get such a rug anyway,” John muttered, while knowing very well that it had been him. 15 years ago he had loved the idea of a huge rug that covered the whole of the living room floor, without realising that they had had cats (even back then), and would soon have kids as well, and Martha had just been fucking _unplanned,_ a twist of the _fates._ John had cursed the rug many a time — especially when he tended to lose his contact lenses into it.

“Do you really want to start talking about that, love,” Paul called in a sing-a-song voice, and John called a small, quiet _piss off_ to him, something that only made his husband laugh lightly.

“C’mon, Johnny, you gotta think positively,” Paul said, his voice slightly out of breath from all the heavy scrubbing he had done. “At least the room will get a very much needed late spring clean.”

“I would’ve preferred to do it some other time, though… like next year” John grumbled, starting to sound very much like Dave on the lad’s best days. “Why isn’t Dave helping us anyway? It’s his mess.”

“It’s more important that he gets a proper good night’s sleep,” Paul lifted his head up so that John could see him peeping over the coffee table. The man had forgotten his reading glasses on after comforting Chuck with a Winnie the Pooh story where the bear was very much alive and _unbroken._ With his hair sticking up, a stubble on his jaw, and his eyes regarding John with his Responsible Dad™ look in full use, he looked more adorable than what John would’ve admitted to if asked. It made him partly mad, partly madly in love, and he scoffed, waving the sponge at the man.

“He’s been sleeping till 3pm! What about my beauty sleep? Or _yours?_ You work tomorrow at 8am!”

“He needs sleep,” Paul said firmly, and John pressed his lips tightly together with a small huff, knowing better than to argue. The kids had gone to sleep an hour ago, and Paul and John had attacked the living room rug with their cleaning supplies. The bath Paul had fantasised about (and by this point, also John) seemed to be very far in the future, since the vomit didn’t seem to be keen on leaving for now.

“I think it’s been in the rug for too long,” John sighed gravely, wiping his forehead with the hand that wasn’t soaked in the Super Vomit Cleaner. “The next one could only cover the area around the coffee table, don’t you think?”

“Sounds good,” Paul said, going back to his stain. “I think I saw rather cheap ones somewhere a few weeks back.”

“Pop, if we get a new rug, we go big or go home. We got money.”

Paul rolled his eyes, chuckling as he put in a few power moves to scrub the hell out of the rug. He could as well stop, if they were slowly coming to the decision of buying a new one, but doing some physical work after sitting around for hours in a car felt good — even though he had hoped the physical work would be something else than rubbing the rug with an old sponge.

(…Maybe he could’ve rubbed the rug with _John,_ but not today. He was too tired, aging sucked.)

“As long as it’s a different shade of brown. I’ve always hated this one,” he said as a passing comment.

Silence from the other side told him that he had hit a jackpot in “Things you shouldn’t have said”.

He waited, counted to three, and then John jumped on his feet, throwing his faded pink sponge into a bucket full of the Super Vomit Cleaner. Paul let out a small, hysteric giggle, leaving his sponge where it was, trying to crawl out of the living room on his knees as fast as possible.

“It’s been 15 years and you haven’t said a word!!” John almost yelled, lunging for him, and Paul let out a small shriek as he stumbled on his feet and ran away, through the dining room into the utility room, where Martha joined him with a joyful bark, and from there the two of them dashed into the garden. Martha’s ears flopped happily while Paul’s black socks hit the wooden terrace he had built some ten years back, both of them avoiding crashing into a table and a couple of wooden chairs they had out there permanently.

He gasped for breath and turned his head just in time to see John running out, spreading his arms, a mad grin on his face.

“You- you—” John breathed, and then jumped on Paul without giving him any chances of getting away, unless he wanted to wet his socks on the slightly damp grass that loomed some three feet away. John’s arms wrapped around his stomach, and Paul let out a laugh as he struggled to get away, pushing his palms against John’s chest.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! The colour was so different in the shop!” he shouted, and burst out into laughter right afterwards, John letting out an outraged sound.

“I loved that rug!” he said, hands starting to dig against Paul’s side, causing another bubble of laughter from his husband. “I _loved_ it!”

Paul just laughed gleefully, squirming in John’s hold, trying in vain to push the man away. Martha came to their side, trying to jump up against the couple with a bark, her tail wagging as she attempted to get her share of the fun. To avoid her enthusiastic attack, John turned his back at her, hauling Paul to the side with such force that they both ended up going down, falling against the terrace with a thud and two synchronised _oofs._

“Al-alright?” John asked after he had regained his sense of balance that had suddenly shifted drastically. Paul, the bastard, just chortled towards the sky, lying on his back, Martha trying to lick his face joyfully. He probably hadn’t died, then, and John took a great amount of comfort in that thought.

“Alright, alright—” Paul more or less wheezed as he tried to push Martha away from his face, and John started laughing as well, unable to stop himself. One of the things he loved about Paul was that the man could laugh about anything — his unbelievable optimism went above any dark thoughts John might occasionally have, and since John loved the man so fucking much, he couldn’t help but join him in his mirth, each and every time. Marriage without laughter wouldn’t have been a proper one, and John was glad to say that he and Paul were still, after all these years, very much _married._

As if to prove that, there was a sound that John identified as a window opening, and he remembered that it was well past 11pm, and the kids’ rooms were just above the terrace.

“Dads, shut up!” Dave’s heavy, sleep-filled voice that hitched at the pinnacle of the sentence (that being the bravely said _“shut up”_ to his parents) reached their ears, and John looked up with a wide grin, trying to lift himself up from the mess of middle-aged limbs he had ended up in.

“Sorry, love,” he called, lifting a finger to his lips (or was it Paul’s hand? John wasn’t sure, since it was so dark). “We’ll be quieter next time we’re cleaning up your mess.”

His words had the effect he had waited for; Dave jerked away from the window with a grimace and closed it, disappearing behind his dark blue curtains, although not before John and Paul heard him mutter “we never went outside”.

They stared at each other after all the signs of Dave were gone, Paul’s mouth already twitching with the smile he hadn’t been quite able to wipe off, Martha bustling around them with her tail wagging endlessly… and then laughter exploded out of them, the sound filling their back garden. So to keep quiet, Paul just _had_ to pull John down for a small kiss. Naturally.


	2. Get Out Of The Book Section, Pop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter warnings:** Heavy swearing, inappropriate name calling, homophobia, Paul and John being disgustingly cute, feels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a second chapter to this new favourite child of mine! I've been really, _really_ busy with uni, and when I say that, I mean _really, REALLY_ busy. I don't have much time to write before summer, I think, but I managed to get this chapter done. (Before I die. the exams are coming)
> 
> i'm dedicating this chapter to Puck, and I also want to be a Bad Friend and reveal that she cried at the end of this chapter which took me completely by surprise 'cos I hadn't planNED THAT AT ALL AND i'M SORRY IF SOMEONE CRIES. anyway the ending scene of this chapter is probably my FAVOURITE thing EVER that i have written so far so i really hope you like it!

A few weeks from the whole party incident passed, and peace entered the house. Paul and John ended up buying a new rug, because a) the stain seemed all to content living in their rug and b) they both hated cleaning from the bottom of their hearts. Besides, it truly appeared that beside cleaning, Paul also hated the rug from the bottom of his heart, and so to call a truce with this newfound fact they got a bunch of rugs to try at home, and ended up choosing a nice, light grey one that was nowhere near as hairy as their previous, now deceased rug. The new one was also easy to carry outside just by moving the coffee table, and both John and Paul had enough strength to do it alone. In short, it was a Perfect Rug, and this time they _both_ agreed on it.

“You know, stuff like this can break a marriage,” Paul said one Saturday morning as he was eating his yogurt, waving a green plastic spoon in the air thoughtfully. The spoon had once belonged to Dave, then to Vera, and then to Chuck, and now it was Paul’s Personal Yogurt Eating Spoon. Only the half-faded face of Piglet in the handle reminded of the more glorious days, when the spoon had served as a utility in both eating and javelin.

John, who was preparing bacon and eggs to put on toasts, turned his head slightly at Paul’s comment, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Stuff like what?”

“The stuff with the rug.”

“The rug?”

“Y’know,” Paul said, his voice reflecting the absolute self-evidence in his thoughts. “If we hadn’t agreed on it.”

“What _‘it’?”_ John looked confused and turned the sizzling bacon over on the pan. Paul sucked slightly on the spoon to get all the remaining yogurt off, leaning back in his chair casually.

“Y’know,” he said, and John huffed with annoyance, shaking his head.

“I _don_ _’t.”_

“Well,” Paul gave the man a small smile, glancing at the microwave clock — it was 8am, so Chuck should be awake any moment, and Vera wasn’t far behind him either. They had no hopes of seeing Dave amongst the living before 12pm, but maybe today Paul would wake him up so that they could eat the breakfast together. He had always loved the moments when the whole family was together. Maybe Dave would forgive him…

(Or then not.)

“You know, um…” he started, but had forgotten what he was meaning to say. Dammit.

“When, er…” he paused and looked at John hopefully, in case the man understood him without words.

He didn’t — at least during the first ten seconds of staring at Paul with a blank look.

“You mean,” John then said, once again turning back to the food before glancing back at Paul, an amused grin grazing his thin lips, “that if we hadn’t agreed on the whole rug stuff, it could’ve dangered our marriage?”

“It could,” Paul said, leaning his elbows on the table, watching how the early sun danced in John’s thick, red-tinted hair beautifully. The light almost seemed to create a shining halo around his head — or were those dust particles? Heavens, it was time to vacuum the house.

John chuckled and shook his head, the light jumping up and down. Okay, so it was definitely dust. Paul pulled a notepad in front of him and wrote _‘dusting + vacuuming’_ under _‘cello practice’_ and _‘groceries’._

“I find it sorta hard to believe that after everything we’ve gone through to get here, it’d be a damn _lovable_ rug that pulled us apart.”

“It was ugly as hell!” Paul exclaimed, not looking up from the notepad, seeing from the corner of his eye how John  reached for some seasoning from the overhead cupboards.

“You’re right — the rug does danger our marriage,” John answered as he returned to the stove. “I still get this overwhelming urge to strangle you.”

“I’ll put it down on the list,” Paul said brightly and wrote _‘strangling Paul’_ under _‘dusting + vacuuming’._

“Was there anything you needed to get done today?” he asked then, starting to colour the the _a_ _’s_ and _o_ _’s_ in today’s todo-list.

There was a clank and he looked up with alarmed eyes, only to see John had dropped the spatula into the pan, his whole upper body suddenly tense.

Then, ever so slowly, the man turned around with an anguished look and Paul already knew what was going on.

 _“That sketch,”_ John squeaked, jumped around and dashed out of the kitchen in a blur, soon banging around in his office. Paul sighed, writing down _‘John’s sketch’,_ and underlined it three times to make himself feel a bit better. Trust John to remember a deadline coming up like this — was it next Thursday, so… five days? It should be doable, though, knowing John’s skills as a _chaotic freelance artist._ The situation was much better than it had been when the kids were small, since John had barely had time to draw back then, between breaking up fights and changing nappies. Sometimes sketches still took time, not to mention the actual colouring… With that he had some more time though, thankfully, since after the sketch was done and approved, John would have another week for doing the final work, colouring and such, before it went out to being published.

Paul distinctly remembered the current work being for a history magazine this time. It had always made him bloat with satisfaction whenever he came across one of John’s drawings somewhere — they had one French book in the teacher’s room with John’s illustrations, and more often than not Paul would run into his works in different magazines that he suspected other teachers left scattered around just so that they could see Paul bouncing through the halls with gleaming cheeks and a sparkling smile.

Writing his name next to the earlier things on the list — since John was going to be drawing the whole day, it was Paul’s job to do everything else — he let out another small exhale, and got up. John had left the food right where it had been, on the pan, and Paul went loyally on to take care of the bacon and eggs. He couldn’t cook as well as John, but this at least he could do. Maybe white beans in tomato sauce and sausages to accompany the breakfast would be nice?

Fifteen minutes later Paul had everything ready on the table, feeling cheerful about a Saturday breakfast spent together with his family. The toasts were made, the bacon and eggs were ready, as well as the tomato sauce and the sausages, and he whistled the soundtrack of _Snow White_ as he wiped his hands into a kitchen towel before springing into the hallway.

“Kids!” he yelled at the bottom of the staircase, “breakfast!!”

Two seconds later there was an enthusiastic yell that sounded like Chuck, and Vera joined in with an energetic “coming!”. Paul strained his ears to hear if there was a response from Dave, or whether he would have to tell Chuck to wake him up… Dave hated it, whereas it was one of Chuck’s favourite jobs.

Counting slowly to ten in his head, he was just about to call Chuck to the rescue when there was a rather distant mumble that Paul could distinctly identify as Dave agreeing to getting up, and he felt his spirits rising as he skipped back into the kitchen, taking joy in the knowledge that the whole family was going to eat together—

_Which reminded him._

“John!” he called into the direction of the man’s small office. The room hadn’t originally been part of the house, but they had run out of space when Chuck joined the family, and had had to decide between having Dave and Vera in the same room, or keeping the car outside all year round. It hadn’t taken long to come to the conclusion that it would be easier to wash the car a bit more often than it would be to endure the sounds of a constant war going on. So they cut the garage in two, one half serving as a storage room, and the other as John’s office. The arrangement worked splendidly, although during winters the office tended to get a bit cold, something of which Paul had heard _plenty._

 _“Yeah, yeah,”_ the (sometimes) fourth child of the household called from his personal man-cave, and Paul grinned at the door before checking the cats and Martha had enough water — Martha tended to gather half of it in her mouth and then just leak it all over the floors, something which the cats hugely disliked. Bloody snobby creatures they were — there was _nothing_ wrong with Paul’s lil baby _bub_ moo moo _Martha_ drinking _water_ with her little _squiggly, mushy_ face like the good _nuggety bug_ she was!!

The kids came down in the expected order; Chuck bursting with stories about his dreams, Vera with fabric-made butterflies in her pigtails, and Dave five minutes later with puffy eyes and his pyjamas still on. Usually they made the children dress before coming for breakfast, but Paul decided not to mind this time, and knew that John wouldn’t probably even notice such a thing, and so he served the sausages with a bright smile that Dave _almost_ reproduced. Almost. Paul knew the lad was going to get there some day. (At least it was good to live with _hope.)_

Martha made herself comfortable in the corner of the room, following the floor with an intense gaze in case there was need for her cleaning service. The cats were never let into the kitchen during meals, since John had spoiled them so much they had no clear knowledge of what was acceptable and what was not; Paul would rather have the cats scratching the kitchen door with loud screams than sitting on his plate, head in his wine glass. (Now, _that_ wasn’t something he wanted to see again.)

“Did everyone sleep well?” John asked at the same time as he came in, just when the eggs were shared over the bread basket, Chuck shouting about wanting the biggest one. The question produced a choir of answers, and John chuckled with a nod of his head as he blocked the cats from entering with a practised use of his right leg.

“Amazeballs.”

“Po-op, Dad can’t say things like that, can he?”

“No. Shut the fuck up, John.”

John rolled his eyes and dropped into his designated seat as all three children broke into giggles, Chuck and Vera especially seeming to find the exchange between their parents hilarious. Dave couldn’t seem to help but chuckle as well, and that in itself told Paul that the day might turn out to be just great.

John seemed to catch onto the overall good mood as well, and he leaned forward in his seat, placing his elbows on the table, looking far more relaxed than what Paul knew he actually was. His poor mind was probably running through ideas at 100 miles per hour, and it was probable that he would just jump up at some point and dash into the office to write a good thought down. Wouldn’t be the first time, and definitely not the last — but Paul didn’t mind, as long as the man came back after the sudden strike of inspiration had left.

“So, we got a few things planned for today — are you ready to listen?” John said, eyeing at Vera and Chuck who were still laughing. Paul wondered whether he had made a mistake — both kids would be gleefully repeating this new catchphrase to each and every person they ever met.

“As if we had a choice,” Dave muttered, but seemed content enough eating his toast, a huge mug of Earl Grey steaming in front of him, a small smile on his lips as he, too, was still thinking about Paul’s words.

“That’s right!” John said cheerfully. “Now, today’s plans will be shared by Pop, because I have no clue about them either.” He pulled a goofy face at Chuck to accompany his words, and the boy giggled some more at him, making a similar expression in response. They looked like right idiots, Chuck at the head of the table with his cheeks resembling balloons, and John leaning towards him, fingers crossed under his chin, eyes crossed and tongue pushed against the inside of his lower lip. Paul grinned at the pair and dug up The List from his back pocket, where it had haphasardly been pushed.

“Indeed, Dad has no clue,” he said, straightening the already wrinkled piece of paper. “Today’s plans — can I have a dramatic drumroll, please?”

Chuck, Vera, and John all started hitting the table as loudly as they could, while Dave tried his best to look like he didn’t belong into the family. Martha lifted her head and let out a small, attentive sound, and Paul, regretting his request, waited for the terrible noise to end before he started cheerfully announcing what he had written down before.

“There’s cello practice for Chuck,” he said, and the boy nodded, grinning from ear to ear. “I’ll do it with you today, Dad is busy.”

“Oh, really?” John asked in a light voice. “Whatever might I have?”

“I’ll leave that for you to deduce,” Paul flashed him a smile, and turned the paper around so that John could see the heavily underlined _‘John’s sketch’_ staring him down. The man chuckled and nodded, although his fingers were tapping against his toast nervously. Paul could only hope John would be able to sleep tonight.

“Otherwise than Chuck’s cello practice, there’s dusting and vacuuming, and I’d appreciate help a lot,” he said and looked around, Dave’s gaze slithering to the opposite wall tactically. Vera pursed her lips, but nodded, raising her hand a bit.

“I wanna go to Ellie’s today,” she said, “is that okay?”

“Later, yes,” Paul nodded, sipping his tea. “Dave, do you want to vacuum upstairs?”

Dave let out a vague gurgle that reminded Paul of the rancor that Jabba the Hut had kept as a pet in _Star Wars._ While amused by the thought, he didn’t let it show and didn’t yield in his stare, and finally their oldest nodded reluctantly.

“Great, it won’t take long,” Paul said happily, knowing well that anything longer than ten seconds of work was long in Dave’s mind at the moment. But for Paul 15 minutes of vacuuming wasn’t long at all, so _technically_ he wasn’t lying. “So, Vera and I will take care of dusting and vacuuming downstairs, Dave goes upstairs. Then there are the groceries — who wants to come with me?”

Both Vera and Chuck lifted their hands up with lightning speed. Dave, as expected, just withered deeper into his shell of a young man who had Better Things To Do.

John, too, lifted a hand, although he looked hesitant and slightly like a small child who wasn’t sure whether he was brave enough to go outside without his parents. Paul raised an eyebrow at him, and John grimaced, his expression melting into a bundle of slight stress.

“It’s quicker if both of us go,” John said, and Paul had to agree to his impeccable logic, smiling at his husband thankfully. If both Vera and Chuck were coming, Paul definitely needed another pair of eyes to be able to handle the chaos that was quickly coming his way.

“Right,” Paul glanced at _‘strangling Paul’,_ grinned and pushed the list back into his backpocket. He’d put it later between his diary as a nice reminder of small, nice moments in their lives for the days when he was old and grey and forgetful and dying and all that other stuff. “That’s sorted out, then — is there any tea left?”

***~**~***

“Dad, Dad!” Vera called and ran to John with a Barbie doll packed in a blue box in her hands. “Can I have this? Look, look — she’s got brown hair!”

John tore his eyes away from Chuck, who was staring at the Lego shelf with such desire that John had thought to find it only from his own gaze whenever he looked at Paul. He had been following with interest how the boy’s expression became gradually hazier with need as he stood in front of the Legos.

He took the Barbie in his hand, noticing how she had been dressed in blue and was indeed a brunette. Deep inside he was immediately cheered up by the aspect, and Vera must have seen something in his expression as she started jumping up and down against his arm.

 _“Please,_ Dad! I know I already got a few, but she’s got _brown hair!_ She’s like me!”

“We’re gonna have to ask Pop,” John said, because he really couldn’t figure out a reason why they shouldn’t get the doll. Paul was much better at coming up with ridiculous reasons as to why not spoil their children, while John just loved buying things. He had no existing filter or impulse control he knew about, unless one counted Paul.

Besides, he was all about different kind of representations, and seeing a brown-haired Barbie was definitely something that created a small ball of satisfaction in the pit of his stomach. It would be Vera’s birthday quite soon, though… Paul and John had thought of getting her a Barbie kitchen that she had been asking for ages, and the doll to accompany the kitchen would probably make her whole year. He would have to talk with Paul sneakily.

Speaking about Paul, the man should’ve already come back from the book section. He had a bad habit of leaving John with the kids to look at the toys while he himself disappeared amongst the book shelves, getting lost both in the books as well as the shop, figuratively… and not so much. This always left John with the dilemma of navigating through the shop, searching for his husband with two children who constantly tried to wander off whenever they spotted something they _wanted._ Of course they would also go in different directions, and since John was also left with the trolley, he couldn’t do much dashing.

It was a norm that at least one of the kids — occasionally also Paul — was found crying from the reception after having got lost, although John rather anticipated it to be only Chuck from now on; he was more difficult to find, since he didn’t have his own mobile phone yet. John and Paul had been thinking of giving him John’s old Samsung, though — it was a maching that could take any kind of beating, so it was ideal to a six-year-old.

“She’s so _beautiful,_ _”_ Vera gushed, taking the Barbie in her hands, running her fingers over the plastic covering the doll. “I wanna be as pretty as she is,” she sighed.

“You already are, pumpkin,” John said, looking out for Chuck who had proceeded to grab the most expensive Lego packet in his hands, looking at it with such passion that John wouldn’t be surprised if he started drooling too. Well, it was good that they had raised a child who knew how to be hopeful… even though he had _no hopes_ of getting that particular spaceship.

“I’m not as thin as she is, and boys like Chloe at school much better, and she is way thinner than I am,” Vera said with a sigh, and John’s whole concentration turned on her, Chuck and the Take-My-Money spaceship forgotten in his mind.

“Love,” he said, having dreaded this conversation was coming — if only because it showed how terrible the society was towards young girls and their self-esteem. Neither John or Paul supported any of that, and had decided to make sure that Vera would grow confidently in her body, no matter what she looked like. Besides, she really _was_ the most beautiful girl John had ever known. (He _knew_ he was slightly besotted with his only girl, but, _still.)_ “You’re perfect. You’re beautiful just as you are.”

Vera bit her lip, avoiding his gaze subtly, and that in itself alarmed John.

“Chloe told me people would like me better if I lost weight. Before gym class one day,” she then said quietly, expression slightly anguished, and John saw _red._

“Well,” he said, burying his sudden anger to discuss the situation later with Paul, deciding to rely on the side of his personality that never let him down; his ability to be A Great Dick.

“Don’t care about what she says.” he said, putting both hands on Vera’s shoudlers comfortingly, while managing to make his voice sound admirably reasonable despite his next words. “She’s a bitch.”

Vera’s eyes started to widen with disbelief just as there was a cry behind them.

_“John! Jesus Christ!!”_

John turned his head and found Paul rushing towards them, his expression completely appalled, a bunch of paperbacks clutched in his fingers. He walked past the trolley, threw the paperbacks in there, and John was already thinking about their nearly collapsed bookshelf and what sort of a catastrophe these newcomers would create when Paul threw them carelessly on top of the shelf.

His thoughts were interrupted by the said man who came at him like an elephant, eyes wide and an offended look on his face.

“You can’t say that about her classmate!” he cried out in a way that was almost comical. Chuck had moved onto taking another Super Expensive Lego pack into his hands, and was now holding them both with a dreamy look. Vera stepped slightly back from John, snatching the Barbie from his hands to hide a grin that had started spreading on her lips, eyes sweeping from Paul to John in an entertained, but slightly unbelieving way.

“She’s been acting like one, though!” John protested, crossing his arms over his chest. “A right maggot—”

 _“John!_ She’s a _kid!_ _”_

“Kids are the biggest arses in the _world._ _”_

Paul pulled a finger to his lips, hushing him almost violently, looking around with an almost panicked expression as he made sure there was no one around. Meanwhile Vera was in stitches, laughing against the Barbie more or less hysterically.

“You can’t say things like that! We’ll talk home, just _shut up._ _”_

“Hopefully Chloe does, too,” John said and winked at Vera, who laughed some more. “Hey Pop, look at that nifty Barbie. All brown hair ‘n all.”

“What??” Paul looked at Vera with slight confusion, and then spotted the Barbie. Almost immediately irritation seemed to enter his expression, and John already knew the answer — he would have to interfere, because _he_ wanted to have that Barbie in the household. He was pretty sure _Chloe_ wouldn’t have the same toy, and this Barbie sure was the _prettiest,_ with her shiny, beautiful brown hair, and blue designer clothes.

“Paul, come here for a bit,” he said, jerking his head towards the end of the the corridor. Paul looked at him surly, but followed him without a word. Vera in turn headed towards Chuck to show the Barbie, probably without much success — the boy had started gathering a huge pile of Legos in front of him. Tearing him away from them was going to break someone’s heart, or ears, and John _knew_ it from experience.

“What’s this about,” Paul hissed at him when they were out of the hearing range for the kids, but still able to see them. “You can’t go around saying things like that to her!”

“Chloe’s been saying that Vera’d be more popular if she lost weight,” John snapped, and watched how Paul’s face went through about six different emotions in the span of five seconds of stunned silence, his expression finally switching from acidic to confused, and from that it morphed into straight anger.

 _“What??”_ he gasped, looking dangerously close to grabbing the closest thing (John) into his hands and destroying it (him) into a million pieces. John nodded, pouting with a disgruntled expression, crossing his arms over his chest.

“She just told me. Wants the Barbie ‘cos it’s got brown hair like her. It would probably boost her self-esteem quite a bit.”

Paul seemed to be speechless, glancing back at Vera before his eyes met John’s again.

“You— Chloe— Wow, what a _bitch,_ _”_ he managed to utter, his voice coming out in a strangled, furious tone. John had a short moment where he wanted to laugh straight at Paul’s face, but even he understood that this wasn’t the right moment.

“I wanna have that Barbie,” John concluded his argument, and Paul stared at him with anger that was fortunately _not_ directed at him. Then the man sighed, crossed his arms over his chest, and nodded, a permanent-looking frown appearing between his eyebrows.

“I think we have to call her parents,” he said, a familiar front tooth biting down on his lower lip in a way that always had John’s stomach flip with love — the gesture was something so _Paul,_ and it also reminded John that they were out of lip balm. He’d add that to the shopping list after they moved on from the toy section.

“They’re arses as well,” he grumbled, putting his hands on his hips, leaning slightly closer. He and Paul had fortunately stepped on the same side, and would now stand there with a united look, and as such closeness was allowed again… At home, John might have not known when to keep his distance, draping himself over Paul whenever his husband really _did not stand it,_ but in public he avoided getting too close… if Paul was pissed off. Otherwise he had no problem — people could say what they wanted, but John was too old and too much in love to fear someone scoffing at their happiness. In theory.

Paul’s mouth twitched, either in annoyance or amusement, and he sighed, reaching out his left hand, placing it comfortably on top of John’s wrist. John turned his hand where it had been resting on his hip, and grasped at Paul’s fingers shortly. The two of them shared a small smile, and Paul nodded again.

“Vera can have the Barbie — but just if you _promise_ it’ll be the last one this year.”

“Hey,” John arched an eyebrow, grinning cheerfully. “You make it sound like I spoil her.”

“I know there’s a reason why the kids like you more than me,” Paul shot back playfully, tugging at John’s hand, starting to pull him towards Vera and Chuck again. John snorted, the sound turning into a chuckle.

“Right. Only until it comes to actually asking something from an _adult._ _”_

Paul grinned at him, the shine in his eyes giving away a non-executed wink, and at that moment John would’ve followed him through fire, probably looking way too besotted for a 44-year-old man. Hand in hand they walked back to the kids, and Paul turned his beautiful smiling face towards Vera.

“You can have the Barbie,” he said, and Vera’s face seemed to explode with a happy shine as she let out a joyful shriek.

“Thanks! Thanks, Pop!!”

“I did most of the work,” John muttered so that only Paul could hear, and his husband chuckled, squeezing his fingers slightly stronger.

“Okay, you lot,” John then raised his voice and pointed towards the trolley, “that thing doesn’t fill itself. The first at the pizza section gets a pizza — after the trolley is _full_ of vegetables.”

Both Vera and Chuck seemed to forget about their toys, and rushed towards the trolley. Vera threw the Barbie in with a large smile still on her face, and both took an obedient hold of the sides of the trolley, whispering _“pizza”_ to each other.

“Pizza,” Paul said to John with raised eyebrows. John shrugged, a small smirk raising on his lips.

“I’m not cooking today, but I don’t want to eat your things either.”

Paul burst into chuckles, shaking his head with wrinkles in the corners of his eyes popping up deliciously. John stared at him for a moment before turning towards the pile of Legos that Chuck had left in his wake, a frown on his forehead as he thought about the situation.

“I don’t cook not _that_ bad,” Paul muttered while John started sneakily tugging him away from the pile, very much needing to distract the man so that Paul’s sense of responsibility wouldn’t kick in and insist on him cleaning up the mess.

“Well, not always,” he said, Paul still frowning at the outrageous claim. The crime scene seemed to be out of his mind for now, and John took a hold of the trolley with one hand, and then the whole lot started advancing, the kids holding onto the trolley, John dragging Paul behind him subtly while the man did his best to enquire _when_ exactly his cooking had been _that_ _bad_ that _John_ wouldn’t inhale it straight into his stomach anyway.

“Oh, look, books,” Paul said idly with a surprised tone after they had passed a few corridors, and suddenly started wandering that way. Meanwhile Chuck and Vera tugged the trolley forward, the word _“pizza”_ flashing as a big mental sign above their heads.

“Paul— no— wait—” John started, while the trolley went on, Paul disappearing towards the book section with a slightly dreamy look. “Kids— book section first! Comics! Colouring books!”

With hard work, John managed to steer the trolley towards the fiction books, where Paul was eyeing at the books with a look that brought resemblance to Chuck’s Lego Expression. John shook his head fondly at the same time as the kids started distancing themselves from the trolley. Oh no— John had just had them under control!

“Paul,” he called, pushing the trolley past the man so that he had access to his wrist. “C’mon, you got your books already. Let’s get going.”

“Huh?” Paul said, completely absorbed by the back cover of some rather heavy-looking fantasy book. John hoped Paul wouldn’t take it — it was a perfect weapon for threatening, whenever Paul needed to put his foot down _for real._ “Yeah, I’ll just… I’ll just take this.” _Dammit._

“Right! Great!” John said too cheerfully, thinking with dread about the upcoming bumps in the head —he better behave for the next… however long it would take from Paul to forget the book’s existence. Ugh. John seriously needed to figure out a way for counter-attacks. He doubted that any ideas would come now, though, since the last 20 years hadn’t been very fruitful either regarding the subject…

Paul dropped the book in the middle of the paperbacks with a terrible sounding thud, and John winced as he imagined the bottom of the trolley being his head. God bless his soul, for he was destined to get that book against his skull at some point. Unfortunately he was that thick — but not thick enough for not realising that this book was a Weapon of Doom.

Paul moved to his side and started pushing the trolley with a cheerful hum, the kids returning to their previous positions obediently. Paul, the fucker, didn’t even need to _say_ anything for them to act accordingly to his wishes. What had John ever done wrong?

(Then again, it may be for the best that this particular question was never answered.)

“We’re gonna have to go around,” Paul called over his shoulder, finally back in the game, ready for some serious vegetable shopping. “Can’t turn the trolley and the lot around.”

John _could_ _’ve_ told him that, but decided to just follow with a smile, eyes lingering on Paul’s backside that swung before him way too deliciously. If it depended on John, he would’ve just left the vegetables and the pizza, and gone straight to eating that arse.

One couldn’t have everything though, at least not in the middle of a supermarket, and so he buried the thought and decided to concentrate on it afterwards. He was sure they would have some kidless-time in the evening, if they played their cards tactically.

Then again not, since John had a _sketch_ waiting, and he was better off _dying_ than trying to get it on with Paul today. _Bollocks._

They turned around at the end of the corridor, and moved onto the next one. Paul had to navigate the trolley past a middle-aged woman when the kids almost crashed into her while the _pizza_ signs were still bright above them, nothing else mattering to them.

“Sorry,” John said quickly to the woman, not resting to hear any possible response, urgent to stay with the pack that was moving at the speed of light by now. However, in the middle of the corridor he noticed cooking books, and okay, he just _could not_ walk past them. All the others had already had their fun, so wasn’t he allowed some of that as well? Especially since the cooking books wouldn’t even go to the overloaded shelf — they resided safely in one of the cupboards.

He could see Paul giving the kids a stern look that had their hands glued on the trolley before the man came over to his side, leaning his chest against John’s shoulder.

“Books? More books,” he said, making himself sound like a toddler, but there was also humour in his voice. John chuckled at his husband’s unhealthy obsession, nodding.

“Yeah, can’t have too many of those, right?” he asked, turning shortly to wink at Paul, who in return giggled like a schoolboy caught from doing mischief.

“Oh, I know,” he sighed, and then regarded John with a small smirk on his lips. “Why don’t I buy you a new cookbook?”

John looked at him in disbelief, up until he couldn’t hold back a grin anymore.

“You’re seducing me with cooking books, you are,” he said slyly, and turned back to the shelf, Paul chuckling into his ear.

“I’d rather fancy more vegetarian dishes,” John continued,  knowing that _that_ in turn would seduce _Paul._

“Oh, yes,” Paul said. He had a longtime wish to become a vegetarian, but both he and John knew that for the children’s growth it was better to keep the dishes as diverse as possible, at least until they were in their teens. They had a plan that when the kids left home, they would go 100 per cent vege, and it wasn’t like they ate _much_ meat now either… When the kids were small  John always cooked the four weekly meat dishes whenever Paul wasn't home. In these days, though, Paul ate his fare share of meat every now and then on weekends — not that he _disliked_ meat, but there had been a time when he had been rather passionate about animals’ rights, to the degree of almost heading for politics with that as his main message — which John had prevented with a very strong “no”. He would not have a laughing stock for a husband, since politicians _always_ ended up like that, no matter how honourable the subject.

“So I’ll just—” John said carefully, his hand twitching towards a vegetarian cooking book with a delicious looking dish in the cover. He could almost hear Paul’s breathing get erratic at the sight.

“Oh, yes,” the man said in a half-moan, and John grabbed the book quickly before his husband could change his mind.

“Love ye,” he said cheerfully as he whipped his head around and grinned, leaving a quick peck on Paul’s lips before starting to head towards the trolley.

“You too,” Paul answered in an automatic voice after the peck and followed him, the kids jumping up and down as they waited, Chuck looking like his patience was coming to an end. The lad was pushing his head against the side of the cart, his cheeks squishing against the metal squares.

John dropped the book into the trolley, congratulating himself — so far they had been about 30 minutes in the shop, and they already had five books and one Barbie. Must be a new record.

“Okay, Pop, you with us?” he called as it seemed that the biography shelf was calling Paul. At the same time he caught a sight of the woman who had almost been brutally murdered by their wild trolley, controlled by the spirits of chaos — otherwise known as Vera and Chuck.

She was staring at them, and there was something in her expression that had John’s attention immediately, recognition squeezing his stomach before he had time to comprehend what he was seeing and feeling.

The woman’s lips curled into a scowl as she looked at them with _disgust._

_Oh, okay._

“Paul,” John called in a voice that would have Paul listening no matter what, and started to push the trolley forward strongly while still holding the woman’s gaze. The kids didn’t seem to be noticing anything yet, but the woman looked awfully like she was going to say something — and John intended to be the fuck out of here before she got a chance.

Paul heard the tone in his voice and immediately turned, his eyes meeting John’s briefly before he glanced at the woman, his eyebrows knitting together. After a moment realisation shone in his expression for a second before a veil of hidden emotions fell over his face. Really, it didn’t take much to know what the woman’s loathing expression meant.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Paul said, as composed as ever, but his voice was oddly calm and he was holding himself carefully, unnaturally almost, his face guarded as he hurried to John’s side. “Those pizzas won’t wait.”

“They won’t,” John said in a light voice, pushing the gang forward, grinning at Chuck who looked up at him excitedly. “And the vegetables are just _screaming_ for us to collect the—”

_“Fucking faggots.”_

The hiss of the woman reached their ears loudly, and both John and Paul twitched involuntarily at her words, faces morphing into unwanted grimaces. Vera’s head whipped around immediately, and Chuck started to look behind them as well, curiosity in his eyes.

“Let’s go, let’s go, _veggies are waiting!_ _”_ John said hurriedly, pushing the trolley, something cold running through his body and up on his face, and once they would get out of the book section they’d be _fine—_

“You’re going to Hell,” the woman called after them, her sneer very audible in her voice, and Paul half-ran to Chuck’s side, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder as he blocked the lad’s view behind. _“And your brats too!”_

“Jesus,” John gasped as he pushed the trolley out of the section into a spacious middle corridor, people and noise separating them immediately from the woman. They moved a couple of feet towards the vegetables before John half-slumped over the trolley, his knees buckling and skin breaking into goosebumps under his wrinkled t-shirt. “What a—”

“John,” Paul warned, and John snapped his mouth shut, trying to compose himself. Paul’s face was slightly pale, and all John wanted was to go back and smack that bitch right around her bloody ugly face, and who even _dared_ to say things like that, and _especially_ in front of their _children—_ how _dare—_

“Who was that?” Chuck asked, still trying to look towards the book section as Paul and John, from a mutual agreement in their shared glance, started hurrying them towards the vegetables, refusing to look back. Their youngest only looked confused, his eyes huge when his gaze met John’s. “Why’d she say somethin’ like that?”

John shook his head slightly, almost unaware of doing it. He glanced at Vera, who was only staring at the ground with a thoughtful frown, chewing on her lower lip as her feet moved rapidly by the moving trolley, hand squeezing at its metallic brim. John got an overwhelming urge to go and _punch_ the woman instead of just smacking the _hell_ out of her, but he knew Paul wouldn’t appreciate it — he had always been against violence, even though both of them had had to land a punch or two in their youth.

“We’ll— we’ll talk later, it’s nothing to worry about,” Paul said, his voice unmistakably tight now that the situation was (hopefully) behind them. John could see his fingers shaking, and Paul soon pushed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket to hide his shock from the children. John himself squeezed the trolley handle so strongly that his hands had gone white — there was no way he was letting go of the trolley, because he felt like his knees would give up the moment he did so.

“Okay,” Paul said, his voice reaching John’s ears from somewhere very far away. “I say vegetables, pizza, and then I _really_ need some ice cream.”

“Yeah!” Chuck cried out, starting to jump up and down. Vera smiled slightly, but there was a faraway look in her eyes — she was deep in thought, and John had no doubts about her not understanding what had just happened. She threw a small glance at John, and he forcefully gave her one of his goofy expressions; in a situation like this the children’s needs came first, and John would have to wallow in his anger later.

“I’m in for ice cream,” he said with a slightly forced chuckle. “But only if I get a chocolate bar, too.”

Paul smiled at him, but there was tightness around his eyes, and John squeezed his lips together in a wordless communication.

Sometimes you couldn’t help the world you lived in.

***~**~***

Buying the groceries with the children in tow could always be described as a barely controlled chaos. Getting home without a bunch of extra sweets and biscuits or whatever the kids fancied that time was always more difficult than one would think — although in these days the whole process was easier than a few years back. Their skin hardened by previously having had three under 10-years old children with them at all times, Paul and John masterfully navigated their way through the shop, and after a total of two hours hauled two big IKEA bags into the back of their car with sighs of relief.

The drive home went quickly, the children chatting in the back while Paul and John held a small, understanding silence. John’s mouth was pressed into a thin line as he sat curled against his seat with a pissed off expression, arms crossed over his chest. Paul held the wheel with a tight grip, eyes fixed on the road, his stomach churning with anger. He couldn’t _believe_ the _nerve_ of that woman. _Who_ could say things like that to a _child??_

John seemed to read his thoughts, since he let out a small, angry sigh, and then muttered with a voice that almost got lost under the purr of the engine:

_“Arsehole.”_

Paul couldn’t help but chuckle slightly, throwing John a sideways glance. Their eyes met, and they shared small, if not slightly bitter smiles. There was nothing they could do now, except fix whatever damage had been done — and the pizza would surely help lots. Creating fun, positive memories to wipe out the negative ones — easy-peasy!

(Paul might have not remembered the pain from falling from a tree at the age of 8, but he sure as hell remembered the magnificent _cake_ he had got after getting out of the hospital.)

 _(John_ might have not remembered the pain from taking a dick up his arse for the first time, but he _sure_ as hell remembered what happened when that said dick found his _spot.)_

Twenty minutes later they unloaded the car of kids and IKEA bags, and the whole gang got to the front door, everyone trying to rush in first. John because he had the frozen food, Paul because he had the ice cream, and Vera and Chuck just for the sake of it. In the end Paul and John — the reasonable adults — let the kids go first, and eyed daggers at each other before both chuckled, motioned simultaneously at the other to go first, and then tried to push in at the same time.

“What’s that?” Dave asked when they got into the kitchen, Paul holding the ice cream in his hand, ready to push it into the freezer. The lad was sitting at the kitchen table, Thisbe draped over his shoulder half-asleep, school books open in front of him. “Ice cream??”

“Yeah,” Paul said cheerfully, grinning at the rare view of Dave actually hanging downstairs (and doing his homework, too! Today _was_ a good day, some slight bumps on the road aside). From the looks of it he had been there for quite some time, since Thisbe wouldn’t fall asleep on you unless you stayed in one place like a tree. “And pizza!”

“For real?” Dave looked up, and then almost smiled at Paul, who nodded, feeling absolutely cheered up from seeing that expression.

“Yeah,” John said as he came out from the utility room where he had been organising the cat cupboard —  dedicated only for his beloved animals (Martha had a small corner for her bones). He was holding two cans of cat food in his hands. “Pyramus!” he called, and Thisbe lifted up his head slowly, eyeing at John with slightly bleary eyes.

“Not you — okay, you too,” John said at the silver tabby as he came over and picked him up, giving a quick kiss at the poor animal’s nose. Paul smiled at the sight, knowing that had the cat not seen pretty much _everything_ during his 15 years of life, John would have no eyes anymore.

There was a meow when their second cat, brown tabby called Pyramus sneaked into the kitchen, his slightly too round form both amusing and worrying Paul. The humorist in him laughed at their overweight cat, and the animal-lover wondered whether it was good for the cat’s health — although at the age of 15, it was more than expected that their cats would both look slightly bloated.

John quickly fed the cats, blabbering something sweet and sugary that even Paul didn’t catch, and then disappeared into his office with a quick kiss to Paul’s lips. He wouldn’t be seen for hours, since the sketch didn’t wait — or it had waited, but _for too long._ And now John suffered the consequences.

After he had gone, Paul dug up the to-do list and looked at it with a sigh. He had an urge to change _‘strangling Paul’_ into _‘strangling an unknown slag’._

Now that the only sound that was left in the kitchen were the cats munching their food, there was nothing distracting Paul from what had happened. He wasn’t sure how to talk about this with Vera and Chuck — but they _had_ to something. As far as Paul was aware, this had been the pair’s first experience of the homophobia Paul and John unfortunately still occasionally had to face. He knew that Vera to be aware by now that some people had a problem with her parents’ relationship, but Paul was sure she had never been present during anything like this before.

“Pop?”

Paul lifted his head and looked at Dave, who was staring at him with a slightly bored look.

“Huh?” Paul said, not sure whether Dave had been talking before or not.

“I said, Matt wants to meet up after lunch — can I go?”

Usually Dave would just sort of disappear without saying anything, but Paul guessed that the lad was still being slightly careful after the whole party -thing, even though it had already been a few weeks. Also, it was a Good Day™, which also increased the chances of _“asking permission”._

“If you’re done with the vacuuming by then,” Paul said, not seeing a reason why Dave couldn’t go — after all, the lad was doing his homework very visibly in front of Paul, had almost smiled today, and had even produced a few whole sentences… didn’t everyone talk highly about rewarding positive behaviour?

Dave nodded at his words, not even complaining this time. Paul grinned at him, but quickly sobered up as he looked back at the list, a frown breaking through his forehead as he got lost in thought, wondering how to talk with Vera and Chuck about the woman in the shop. Their goal wasn’t to make the kids wary of everyone — but rather make them better prepared if a situation like this occurred again.

“Pop…” Dave called him again, and Paul looked up, raising an eyebrow at the boy.

“Is everything okay? ‘Cos you seem… I don’t know… A bit…” Dave waved his hand in the air vaguely, something that reminded Paul of John. He smiled shortly at the thought, and then pushed himself away from the kitchen counter, coming to sit at the table. Dave followed him with a scrutinising look, appearing to be slightly uncomfortable from showing interest in his father’s feelings, and Paul felt his chest expand at the thought that their awkward, grumpy, and slightly cave-man -like teenager had a big, caring heart inside him without even realising it.

“There was a woman in the shop,” he said quietly, Dave leaning towards him to hear better, creating a small McCartney-bubble in the middle of the kitchen table. “She shouted… um… some, er, things at us. You— you know the sort.”

“Oh,” Dave’s brow furrowed, and anger seemed to enter his expression. “And Vera and Chuck were there?”

“Yeah,” Paul let out a small sigh, rubbing one side of his face with a sudden overwhelming feeling of fatigue washing over him. “Yeah, they— they were. We’re gonna talk a bit later, after dinner I think, when Vera’s back from Ellie’s.”

“Huh,” Dave said, starting to play with the pen in his hands. He tapped it against the book, his lips pressed tightly together. They sat in silence for a moment, Paul too tired, too bitter and sad with the world to say anything.

“It’s awful,” Dave then said, voice quiet. “You should be able to just… live in _peace._ _”_

Paul hummed, fully agreeing, suddenly choking with emotions. It was so damn _true_ — and it didn’t help that it was _Dave_ saying stuff like that. No matter what problems he created with his hormones going overboard, it was clear that the boy cared, that he had his head well between his shoulders and his heart in the right place.

“Are you gonna take it to the police? You should, right?” Dave continued, eyes burning with fire, his hold of the pen getting stronger. Paul paused for a moment, and then shook his head.

“I don’t think there are any ways of proving what she said. There should be cameras, yes,” he said when Dave opened his mouth to probably point that out, “but those have no sound. I don’t— don’t really want to ever think of her face again. What we _can_ do, is to ensure that you kids know that there are people in the world who are… who _disagree_ with certain… things, and that you know how to deal with that.”

“There shouldn’t be— shouldn’t be people like that. It’s stupid,” Dave said, his voice becoming slightly heated. Paul wondered when he had last heard that emotion when it wasn’t directed at him or John; he wondered whether Dave’s frontal lobe was starting to put up signs of the reconstruction ending in the following months. That’d be grand, it would.

“It is,” he agreed again, nodding. “But that’s the way the world is. Things are much better in these days anyway — we have you three, for example. _And_ we’re officially married! Who would’ve thought… Couldn’t have imagined that when I was 15.” Emotion entered his voice as he thought about it, thought about the memory of seeing Dave for the first time and thinking that this child was _his._ That moment was still on his list of Top 5 Moments In His Life — a list that included seeing each of their kids for the first time, getting married, and one unforgettable, life-changing party.

Dave smiled faintly, looking wondering.

“Was that when you met Dad?”

“Oh, no,” Paul laughed, a memory of purple and green lights reflecting in a pair of mischievous eyes flashing in his mind. “We were, uh, what? I was 18? It was my first year in uni...”

Dave, surprisingly, seemed to be interested, his smile widening as he probably thought back to photos he had seen of Paul in his full 90’s look.

“And what did you think of him when you met him?”

“Oh,” Paul said, and shrugged nonchalantly. “I thought he was nice — we got along,” he grinned and winked. Dave looked torn between looking aghast and amused.

“Sure,” he ended up saying. “Cool.”

Paul, sensing that the discussion was over (the all-ending _“cool”_ was a powerful word), got up, slightly cheered up from the great progress that had happened with Dave today, and walked out of the kitchen with the goal of dusting downstairs with Vera before lunch. If it was up to him, they would have time to dust _upstairs_ as well — either be productive or do nothing, that was his motto.

***~**~***

The house was dark when Paul made his way downstairs, his wristwatch showing that it was well past ten in the evening. Chuck had finally fallen asleep, his clever head full of questions about people who hated others for stupid reasons, and as such the discussion had continued well past his bedtime. As far as Paul was aware, both Vera and Dave were already asleep; it had been a long day, at least for Paul and John.

The discussion with the children had gone well, better than what Paul had expected. Neither Vera nor Chuck seemed to have caught terrible traumas, and while they didn’t understand why, they knew now that some people didn’t like the thought of John and Paul being together — it was just a sort of a never-ending line, John had explained. Years back people hadn’t wanted rich people to marry poor ones; black people hadn’t been able to marry white people; and not too long ago, two men and two women couldn’t have got married.

 _“You remember when Dad and I got married, three years back?”_ Paul had asked, and Vera nodded vigorously, Chuck a little more hesitantly, serious expressions on their faces. Vera had clutched at her new Barbie, playing with her brown hair, occasionally fidgeting with the hem of her blue dress. _“That was when they changed the law so that we could do it.”_

 _“They saw— they saw you loved each other?”_ Chuck had said, looking coy and cute and just _eatable_ in all his big eyes and innocent expression. Paul and John had glanced at each other, and had broken into smiles.

 _“They saw that_ ** _many_** _people loved each other,_ _”_ John had said, and that had been enough for Chuck... until he was put to bed by Paul.

It hadn’t been easy, talking about _why_ the woman had said the things she had — why talk about Hell, and why she would want the children there as well. Paul knew that they couldn’t have mucked things up too badly, since Dave had grown to be a good, good boy, but he still fretted slightly whether they had managed to explain everything well.

Sometimes he wasn’t sure whether this whole “be a parent”-business was really meant for him and John — they were slightly too chill to be taken seriously… or at least John was.

Speaking of John…

Once at the bottom of the stairs Paul turned to head into the kitchen, Martha following him with her gaze from her bed that was situated under the stairs. Softly humming to himself, Paul prepared a sandwich and some rooibos tea on a tray, and then made his way to the office door.

He knocked before pushing the door open, the familiar sight of John hunched over his drawing table laying in front of him. The only source of light in the windowless dark room was John’s flexible IKEA table lamp that was bent from the middle this time, pointed so that the A3-sized paper would not be shadowed by John’s right hand drawing sharp lines.

Paul approached his husband and took an old stool from underneath the office table, placing the tray on it. He put that on John’s left side, and then walked over to his right to lean over his shoulder and take in the sketch. It was a group of vikings getting out of a huge boat looming behind them, each of them carrying different things on their shoulders — Paul couldn’t say what those things were, since John had only marked them with large circles, half of the vikings missing their hands as well. Currently John was sketching the biggest warrior at the front, a lamb on his shoulders, a stern expression on his face as he was stepping out of the water, staring straight at the reader with an unyielding gaze.

“Looks like Mimi,” Paul said before he could stop himself, and John quickly lifted the pen before he ruined the drawing with his hand shaking from laughter.

“You’ll be dead if she hears that,” he snorted and turned slightly towards Paul, eyes tired, hair sticking up from where he had run hands through it. Paul chuckled and got down to his knees, crossing his arms on the table before resting his head on top of them, just watching John.

“How’d the evening go?” John asked as he got back to the sketch, the familiar sound of his pen scraping over the paper filling Paul’s ears, making him feel at peace. If there was something constant in John’s character, it was this sound that followed them around pretty much everywhere.

“Fine,” he answered, closing his eyes, just listening to John drawing. “Chuck had a lot of questions, but he fortunately calmed down enough to sleep.”

“I dread to think of Monday,” John said, and there was a small clink that Paul identified with the sound of John lifting the tea mug Paul had prepared for him.

“Mmh?”

“He’ll be full of unnecessary information about same-sex marriage laws and stuff, and of fire and determination. I bet we’re gonna have at least one call from school.”

Paul chuckled, lifting his eyebrows slightly without opening his eyes, his cheek pressing comfortable against his forearms.

“Our little justice warrior,” he said, and heard John laugh softly at that. Paul smiled softly, before silence took over, and he just listened to John drawing, the sound not pausing even when he heard John take a sip of his tea.

Paul opened his eyes and stared, taking in John’s angular nose and the thick-rimmed glasses that were resting low on his nose, the concentrated expression on his face slightly ruined by the exhaustion that radiated from him. Paul, having marked way too many exams in his lifetime, knew perfectly the feeling of staring at a paper for so long that your eyes started crossing, nothing else but moving the pen with robotic movements mattering anymore. John, being the sort of chaotic worker he was, ended up in a situation like this more often than not, and as such sitting in the office late to keep him company had become a tradition for Paul.

He took in how the dust particles danced in the air above John’s hair, and thought that while the rest of the house was now dustless, the office certainly wasn’t. That would be a project for next weekend, then. Little spring clean never hurt anyone, even though Paul _hated_ cleaning. But since the office was John’s, he could certainly do his part of keeping the house clean.

His thoughts drifted from the dust back to the happenings of the day. He was still feeling angry at the woman, and knew that John felt exactly the same — it was nice having someone who understood, who knew exactly what Paul was thinking from just throwing a glance his way. Paul also had to thank John for noticing the woman’s expression before she had even started to say anything — they had managed to get a few precious extra seconds to get away, rather than have to listen to some more shit coming out of her mouth.

Ugh, Paul was still mad. Today’s events _would_ _’ve_ been completely handleable, had the children not been there. Paul and John were masters of ignoring looks and occasional comments thrown their way, but having the _kids_ be subject to those… That was just something way too cruel, and Paul couldn’t even _imagine_ what could have gone through the woman’s head. How could anyone say things so mean as that? That had been a question posed today by pretty much all of their children, but John and Paul still had no answer. And they had asked the same for years.

Paul stared at John some more, and was overcome with a fit of love towards his husband. John was everything he could’ve ever asked for; the answer he had given Dave earlier today was ridiculously lame compared to the actual things he had felt upon first meeting John, someone whom Paul believed to be his actual soul mate. It had been just _unbelievably_ consuming.

“I love you,” he said softly, his voice filling the small, warm space between them. For the moment it felt like they were the only two people in the world, illuminated by John’s lamp, and outside that circle of light there was nothing, and no one could hurt them inside this bubble of safety and mutual feelings of adoration and love.

John paused in his drawing, having just been in the middle of a sip. Paul watched his Adam’s apple move as the man swallowed, and then both the mug and the pen were lowered down, the mug on the stool, the pen at the bottom of the tilted drawing table.

There was a small smile on John’s lips as he turned towards Paul, and when he leaned down to press his mouth to Paul’s, Paul was ready and waiting, his head slightly lifted up to meet the soft touch of John’s lips against his.

The kiss wasn’t anything big, not deep, and they didn’t involve tongues in it — but it was life-shattering in the way it gave away all of their thoughts about each other. It had always been like that, ever since their first kiss (that had had both of them in stitches for about… how about the rest of their lives). This one resembled that, and had always been Paul’s favourite way of kissing John — tranquil, without any hurry in the world, soft, and sweet, and above all it was loving.

John pulled back and Paul let his head fall back against his arms, and they shared equally adoring smiles before John lifted up his pen and started sketching again.

“I talked with Dave today,” Paul said after a moment, keeping his eyes on John’s beautiful face. No matter the man’s quirks, his sometimes slightly annoying personality and all; Paul worshipped him, and was happy to do so — knowing John thought the same about him.

“Yeah?” John lifted an eyebrow, shooting him a small glance, accompanied by a smile. “And both were still in good spirits afterwards?”

Paul scoffed slightly, making John chuckle.

“Of course. Always,” he winked, and John rolled his eyes while reaching for a sharpener.

“He asked me what I thought of you when we first met,” Paul said, and watched how John’s lips widened into a large smile.

“And what did you say?”

“That you were a nice guy, and we got along.”

John burst into laughter at that, trying to stifle it so that it wouldn’t wake up the children. Paul joined in, happy to be able to share the joke with someone who _got_ it.

“That’s the understatement of the year,” John’s laughter turned into small giggles as he pulled the pen closer to his eyes, checking that it was, indeed, sharp enough. “I completely blew you off yer feet.”

Paul hummed, kept on staring at John with a smile on his face. It was one of his favourite things — staring at John, no matter in what situation. Sleeping John was his favourite; Working John was another, if not for the fact that he could see the man doing something else than lazing about. Mostly he loved it because John was so much in his _element_ when drawing — he so clearly enjoyed it, even after all these years, and seeing the natural, skillful touch of his pen against the paper was almost the same as watching a musician with their instrument. Paul had fallen in love with John by watching him — not listening, but watching, when no one else had paid attention to the man.

And John had fallen in love with him by lifting his head up, and finding Paul watching.

“I mean,” Paul said, trying to sound nonchalant, thinking back to those green and purple lights, “having not felt any sort of sexual desire towards _anyone_ ever… and then you waltzed into the room, and we talked for a half and hour, and it was like an _explosion_ in me head.”

John laughed again, Paul filing the sound away into a mental folder called _“reasons to love this idiot”._

“I know,” the man chuckled, winking at Paul. “Still proud to be the only one to explode in you.”

Paul broke into boyish snickers, nodding against his hands. His knees were starting to hurt with the position, but he enjoyed the discussion too much to really move. He would have to go to sleep pretty soon, though.

 _“Although,_ you could’ve _not_ slept with pretty much every guy and gal at the uni before meeting me,” he rolled his eyes, and John shrugged, getting once again back to his drawing. Paul had a feeling he slightly bothered John’s work, without the man himself minding it at all.

“I’ve said — I stopped doing that the moment I saw you!” John lifted an eyebrow. “Wanted you and no one else from the very first second.”

“How romantic,” Paul deadpanned. “Only wanting between my legs.”

“Well, fortunately the feeling was mutual after that half an hour, or I would’ve _not_ been screwed,” John smirked, and Paul huffed before breaking into chuckles. His back was really starting to scream now, and his neck was joining the party.

“If there’s one person in the world to get a sexual rise out of you,” John then fixed Paul a slightly terrifying, leering gaze, “I’m glad to be that one.”

Paul laughed, finally getting to his feet. He leaned over to John, pressing a kiss to his lips, lingering for a moment before he pulled back, grinning at his husband.

“Don’t be too late,” he said, running a hand through John’s hair. John smiled at him softly, turning back to his sketch, and Paul retreated to the door. Just before he closed it, he could hear John mutter something that sounded suspiciously like _“that bitch, though.”_

He chuckled and closed the door, Martha lifting her head up at the sound. Paul went and patted her head, giving a kiss on top of her nose and receiving one in return, and then headed for the stairs after checking that the front door was locked.

He climbed the stairs and thought back to the day; their life sure was never _dull,_ and certainly not _emotionless._

He could only guess what tomorrow would bring, and that was all fine with him — what was life without a little adventure, after all?

(Of course, to keep a hold of his sanity, this attitude was compulsory in his family.)


	3. Have Some Spotted Dick, Dear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter warnings:** Some swearing, failed attempts at sex, a rather torturous R-rated blow job. Also, WARNING: KIDS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the chapter that started this all! For those who don't know, I got a message from a poor anon: _j &p are parents and the story is just a bunch of really awkward snippets of almost being caught by the kids (is this inspired by almost just walking in on parents???? Yes)_. AND I GOT REALLY INSPIRED BY THAT, and wrote this. And then I got more inspired, and started writing the rest, and eventually made this one-shot part of the bigger plan. So, here you have chapter 3: Have Some Spotted Dick, Dear.
> 
> Even if you've read it before, do it again.... there's some 3k added overall and a whole new ending too ;) I'm sure you won't regret (if someone regrets, it's JOHN and PAUL. RIP) Also thanks to Puck as usual - I couldn't ask for a better motivation than her comments! ;):)):) <3

“How was your day?” John asked with a raised eyebrow, blowing into his hot tea with a peaceful air around him. Paul groaned and let his head fall on the table, the fork in his hand clinking against his plate. His hair was standing up adorably, and there was a persistent frown between his eyebrows. The Thursday evening had started just like it usually did — Paul came home from school with the face of someone who had seen War, and John was ready and waiting with food. It was something John had never really thought to happen when he had been younger; becoming a real housewife, and actually enjoying it. But apparently miracles happened, and here he was, loving (almost) every moment of it.

“You have no clue of the horror of snotty teenagers and of the chaos they can create during English classes,” Paul mumbled. John snorted into his mug with raised eyebrows. He had heard that sentence about a million times during their years together.

“I don’t?” he asked with amusement, and Paul lifted his head, his expression critical as he eyed at John, a smile soon tugging at his lips.

“No, you’re right,” he said, mouth finally setting into a mischievous line. “You were probably worse. A real nightmare. Even at uni.”

John laughed and winked.

“And it right turned you on,” he grinned, and Paul rolled his eyes, his small smile betraying his thoughts. Then his expression broke into a yawn, his eyes falling onto the clock on the wall.

“God,” he muttered. “I can’t believe it’s only six o’clock. I’m dead tired.”

“Exactly, it’s six o’clock,” John frowned, turning to look at an old clock on the kitchen wall. “Where the bloody fuck is Dave?”

“Out?” Paul asked, pushing a forkful of sausages into his mouth, eyebrows raising as his face adapted an unsurprised expression. “Isn’t that where he always is?”

“He is supposed to send a text if he doesn’t come home straight from school! I didn’t make the food for nothing,” John huffed and waved his hand towards the oven where a half-eaten _toad in a hole_ was resting peacefully under a small cotton towel. Paul nodded several times, his expression now morphing into an extremely understanding one, which made John roll his eyes. He himself — having been home for the whole day, as always — had already eaten, and was now enjoying his Dessert Tea, which was totally a Thing.

How did Dave dare to do this though?? John had already made the _food._ What had he ever done to deserve this? (John _did_ have a slight habit to succumb to melodramatics, but… he had all the rights! He had raised three kids while Paul had just marked exams through their lives, sometimes giving a piggyback ride to whoever first managed to climb onto him (and not always it was one of the _kids).)_

“That’s our snotty teenager,” Paul sighed, chewing on his sausage with a pondering expression, his frown back. “What about the others?”

“Um, since it’s Thursday…” John trailed off, looking at Paul with an expecting look. Paul grimaced.

“I only remember my own schedule, sorry.”

John chuckled and poured himself some more tea.

“Well, Chuck is at the orchestra rehearsals, and Vera is—”

“—At the play rehearsals! The rehearsal evening!” Paul shouted over John. “It’s Thursday! Rehearsals!”

John burst into laughter, the tea in his mug jumping dangerously up and down.

“Yeah. I noticed,” he said. Paul scoffed, although he was fighting a grin.

“Nobody likes the smart guy,” he said before smiling widely, then quickly stuffed more sausages into his mouth to cover it up. John rolled his eyes, taking his phone out.

“So there really must be something wrong in your head, for marrying me ‘n all that,” he said and took a sip of his tea, Paul laughing around the mouthful of food, not able to stop himself anymore. He looked absolutely ugly, sausages spilling from his mouth as he chortled, and John looked at him adoringly while Paul managed to stifle his hysterics, swallowing the food down with a slightly painful expression. God, John wouldn’t have changed him for anything.

“Yeah, that was only ‘cos you can cook,” Paul said as he had composed himself and winked. “And you’re a _really_ good lay.”

John raised his eyebrows slowly, writing _‘food is READY’_ on his phone to their snotty teenager before putting the device down on the table, screen down. Then, his concentration back on Paul, he smiled wolfishly.

“Only after my willie, huh?” he said. “Sorry, you’ll only get some _other_ dick today.”

Paul looked confused up until the moment John got up, walked to the fridge and got out a cake plate. A light brown pudding that was spotted with black currants nestled peacefully on top of it, unaware of its scandalous name and the sparks of amusement it woke up in John’s corrupted mind.

“Oooooh!” Paul more or less shouted. “A spotted dick! John, you’re a _marvel!_ _”_

John laughed and put the pudding back into the fridge.

“Just felt like baking — which reminds me, I finished that sketch!” he said, a large smile spreading on his lips. Paul stared at him for a moment before he whooped, almost throwing his fork on the floor in the process.

“It’s ready?” he exclaimed, delighted, and _greatly_ relieved. “Only took you five days!” He added with a wry grin, throwing John a knowing glance.

“Shup up,” John grinned slyly. “I’ve just been distracted by other things.”

“Like?” Paul raised an eyebrow, wiping his mouth on a napkin.

“Your face?” John leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his chest. They held the eye-contact for a long time, tension growing in the room, until Paul stood up, shaking his head with a defeated, but amused look.

“I can’t resist such a pick-up line, and, well, since the kids aren’t home—” he started and John’s face broke into a large, happy smile, as Paul crossed the kitchen to kiss him soundly on the mouth, hands going automatically into John’s hair.

“I love it when you’re radical like this,” John murmured between the kisses and slipped his hands around Paul’s waist, a familiar movement that forced Paul to step closer, making him smile with affection as he mouthed softly at John’s lower lip.

“You bring it out, you small rebel,” he said, chuckling, and pressed his husband tightly against the kitchen counter, the next kiss deeper. Pushing a leg between John’s, Paul started slowly grinding up and down against his crotch, making him gasp from the feeling.

“Are you sure I’m not getting _any_ other dick today?” Paul snickered then and John rolled his eyes, a small moan escaping his mouth.

“I never said anything about _me_ not getting any,” he said, cupping Paul’s arse with both hands with a humorous leer. Paul laughed before kissing John again, pushing his leg down harder, their mouths opening, tongues meeting. John groaned and moved his hips slightly to respond to Paul’s actions, humming into his mouth as his fingers started slipping under the waistband at the backside of Paul’s jeans.

Paul kissed the sound away with an ever-present smile on his lips, starting to move faster with more desperation, knowing they would have to take this to the bedroom if they were to continue any further — mainly because they were old farts, and couldn’t stay on their feet when pleasure got overwhelming.

He remembered a time when it had been nothing at all to lift John up and against a wall, and vice versa, but now those times were gone, and there was nothing they could do about that, neither one of them big fans of sports. Besides, the bed was soft and the kitchen counter must have felt rather uncomfortable against John’s lower back.

The words were almost in his mouth, but he decided to keep this nice snogging session going on for a while longer, since for going upstairs they would have to separate from each other at least for a few seconds, which surely was too much. And now that he thought about it, he was sure they could stay on their feet — since letting each other go now was totally something he never wanted to do, and he came to the conclusion that sure, it was better to just stay here…

With that decision, he let his hand travel down towards John’s fly, while John seemed to come to the same conclusion, his fingers working to pull Paul’s shirt off his trousers, and—

“Is there anyone here?!”

“ _Shit_ —”

Paul pulled away from John at the same time as John pushed him off, dashing underneath Paul’s armpit into the nearest chair. Paul swayed in place for a second, before he grabbed the kitchen counter and swallowed. He pressed his crotch against the wooden counter and tried to will his damn erection to go down (without much success), his knees shaking and disappointment flooring his stomach along with frustration.

To look like he had an actual reason for standing stupidly against the counter while his food was still on the table, he reached for a glass and started pouring himself some water. John smartly grabbed the glass that was already on the table, and downed the remainings of Paul’s water in two seconds, before taking his tea mug in both hands innocently, his cheeks flushed and gaze slightly dazed, eyes fixed on the wall with the same goal Paul had — LOOKING NORMAL (and failing).

Steps approached the kitchen and soon Dave appeared into the doorway, a puzzled expression on his face.

“Oh. Hi,” he said, his voice slightly less grumpy than usually. Paul put that down to him being surprised that John and Paul were both in the kitchen, being _quiet._ Besides, the last few days _had_ been better than usually. “I thought you weren’t home.”

John’s face was the epitome of innocence, way too much so, because John never looked _that_ innocent. Paul grimaced inwardly, hoping that his cheeks weren’t flaming red (they were), and turned to his eldest son.

“Well, um, you know, tired. We kind of zoned out.”

John’s expression became the epitome of _‘Pathetic, Paul. You’re an English teacher. That is pathetic, and just plain sad. Pathetic.’_ Paul shot him a sharp glace, and John pulled a grotesque expression at him, which in turn made Paul fight a smile before he couldn’t fight it anymore, and winked at the man.

Dave looked at their exchange blankly. Paul noticed a brand new pile of pimples in his jaw and made another mental grimace. Dave had probably blocked all of their advice of washing his face every now and then, again. Somehow that small bit of constant nagging just didn’t seem to stick in his head.

“Yeah, whatever,” their snotty teenager said, voice back to its usual grumpiness. “Wasn’t there food?”

“On the stove, take a plate. Self-service,” John said, his voice surprisingly balanced, the usual mischievous sparkle that Paul so loved coming back into his eyes. “Next time if you’re out, send me a message, or _whatever_.”

Dave looked pissed (nothing new there) and muttered something while proceeding to look for a plate in the cupboard (but alas, he was fooled, for they were all in the dishwasher). Paul exchanged a look with John, and both held back laughter.

“So,” John then said, sitting sideways in his chair, that innocent expression back. “Paul, you should finish your dinner too, if you want to have that dick for dessert.”

“What?” Dave looked up, alarmed. Paul, on the other hand, couldn’t hold it in and cracked up.

 _“Spotted_ dick,” John grinned slyly, leaning his elbow on the backrest of the chair, resting his cheek against his arm. “Now just _what_ were you thinking, Dave, my boy?” he wiggled his eyebrows and pulled a goofy face. Dave made a face and started to fill his plate with sausages.

“Disgusting, Dad,” he muttered. “That’s just disgusting.”

“Disgusting is my second name,” John said, looking extremely satisfied with himself while Paul doubled over, the laughter never stopping.

***~**~***

“You _what???_ _”_ Paul let out a yell, his wide eyes staring at John who was sitting in front of his computer, his glasses hanging low on his nose. The man looked exhausted, a pen stuck behind his ear, glasses hanging low on his nose, his old, blue dress shirt ruffled and full of cat hair.

“Organised the whole bunch,” he said, leaning backwards and stretching his arms quickly. “Took me a while, though.”

He took off his glasses and rubbed his left eye with a tired, but content grin. Paul stared, unable to comprehend it. John had really — he had _actually —_ _all of them—_

“Even the… Even all the photos from Scotland?” Paul asked, gaping at him with an open mouth. John nodded, his grin widening.

“Even all those selfies Vera and Dave took,” he smiled. “There were about two hundred of those. Oh, the time when Dave was but a sweet child, instead of the grumpy old man he’s turned into…”

Paul slowly shook his head, his expression full of wonder. And then he leaned in and kissed John fully on the mouth.

“I can’t believe— you’ve actually— _every photo—_ _”_ he gasped between kisses, soon climbing into John’s lap. John let out a few muffled, delighted sounds, his hands landing on Paul’s backside without hesitation.

“It’s been in my mind for _years,_ _”_ Paul continued, “you _blessed man—_ _”_

John laughed, nuzzling his head against Paul’s throat, his lips trailing down, emitting a moan from the other man.

“I would’ve done this years ago if it got you _this_ willing,” he said, his fingers pushing under Paul’s shirt, his quickly building erection brushing against Paul’s arse. Paul groaned at that, his head falling back, his hips jerking against John’s—

“Dad? Are you here?”

Paul let out a gasp and scrambled to get off John. His husband quickly helped him by pushing him down on the floor, putting his glasses back on as he rolled his chair around to face the computer. Paul caught his breath and crossed his legs, sitting up higher, doing his best to look like _nothing_ had been happening. Which hadn’t. _Nothing had happened,_ and that in itself was a _bummer._

The door opened and Vera pushed her head in.

“Oh,” she said. “I thought you weren’t home. No one answered.”

She looked at Paul, her eyes narrowing.

“Why are you on the floor, Pop?”

“Haha,” Paul said nonchalantly. “Sometimes it’s just funnier that way.”

“…Right. Dad, can I play on the Playstation? It’s Friday,” Vera turned her eyes on John, who did his best to look innocent (and again, looking completely unnatural while doing so), one of his legs lifted over the other.

“Okay,” he said after a few seconds of pretended thinking. “But only till five.”

Vera made a face and let out a dissatisfied sound.

"It’s not gonna destroy my brain!" she started, but Paul fixed her The Look™, and at seeing that she shrugged before disappearing towards the living room, Pyramus sneaking in before the door had managed to wholly shut. He waddled over to John, and climbed into his lap by digging his claws into his leg, John not even twitching at the feeling.

Paul and John glanced at each other, and then, suspiciously, John started to look like he was holding a laugh, his hands sliding around Pyramus as he lifted the fat cat against his chest.

 _“‘It’s just funnier that way’,”_ he said, his mouth quivering. “Really, Pop?”

“Shut up,” Paul huffed. “I’m gonna feel this in my arse for the rest of the weekend.”

“If it’s up to me, you’ll feel something else up there soon, too,” John grinned, and earned a swat on his thigh.

They succumbed into a comfortable silence after the laughter had faded away, both men getting lost in thought. Then Paul lifted his head, fixing John a scrutinising look.

“Love…”

“Hmm?”

“You’re avoiding your work, aren’t you?”

John kicked him out of the office, and Paul laughed himself silly in the hallway before joining Vera in her game.

***~**~***

“I’m so tired,” John groaned and fell face first on the bed. Paul glanced at him with a bright smile, fixing his big glasses that were an ancient relic from the 80’s so that they hung lower on his nose.

“That’s what you get from working so late,” he said and turned a page from his new book. John huffed and raised himself up to his elbows.

“I finished the sketch a _tad_ too late,” he sighed. “I gotta have the actual drawing ready for Monday.”

Paul glanced at him with a suffering expression. John gave him a small smile in return.

“You’re so cute when you feel more stressed about my work than I do.”

Paul rolled his eyes and returned his eyes to his book.

“We’ll see who’s stressed tomorrow evening.”

“Honey, I’ll stress over the deadline when it’s already gone,” John said cheerfully and yawned. Paul smiled with a knowing expression that told that John was definitely right.

“Sometimes I wonder why you didn’t become an art teacher,” he said. “I think it’d be less hectic than being a freelance artist.”

John shrugged as well as he could from his position.

“I don’t enjoy children. Unless they’re mine.”

Paul hummed and nodded, a small smile on his face.

“God bless, otherwise this whole marriage-business and stuff _really_ wouldn’t have worked out.”

John nodded and laughed, and they lapsed into a comfortable silence. Paul was again absorbed by the story he was reading, but by now John was getting interested. He squinted at the book, eyebrows knitting together.

“ _Game of Thrones_? You??” he said with a bewildered voice. Paul shrugged.

“Well, I have to know what all the hype is _about_ … Half of the class is talking about the TV series, so I figured I’d give it a go.”

“That’s not TV, though,” John said and leaned closer, trying to read the back of the book. He ended up burying his elbow into Paul’s stomach, leaning over the man sideways while peering at the small text with narrowed eyes.

“Just— get your _glasses_ —” Paul choked, the book almost hitting his husband in the nose while he tried to get the man off.

“Left them in the office,” John said, his voice delighted. “Well, this sounds like a load of rubbish.”

“Don’t judge before you read,” Paul huffed and managed to push John away. John rolled his eyes and settled on his back next to him, pulling at his pillow so that they were lying side by side, arms pressed together.

For a while it was silent, Paul reading and John resting his head against Paul’s shoulder, his eyes staying closed longer and longer with each blink. Then Paul sighed, lowering the book on top of the blanket.

“Are you _too_ tired?” he asked, turning his head slightly so that he could look at John, a smile on his lips.

“For what,” John mumbled, his voice barely audible. His eyes were now permanently closed.

“For finishing what we started in the office yesterday,” Paul said with his smile widening into a grin. John’s eyes shot open and he jumped into a sitting position, making Paul startle.

“No sssir!” John saluted and took a hold of Paul’s book, throwing it away.

“Hey!” Paul laughed while John jumped on him, got rid of his glasses the same way, and started pulling his shirt up. “I thought you were— tired—”

John laughed as well, sitting on top of Paul’s stomach, bouncing on it excitedly.

“I am, so we better be quick,” he winked and yanked Paul’s shirt off. Paul snickered and reached up for John’s one, sitting up and latching his mouth against John’s collarbone.

“The kids— asleep?” he breathed before starting to suck on the soft skin under his lips, John pushing a hand into his hair.

“Yes, yes,” he chanted, his voice not far from a moan. “Checked— took away Vera’s phone in case—”

“Alrighty then,” Paul said in a business-like voice, threw John down on the bed and climbed on top of him, reached down for the man’s briefs. John snickered, shaking his head at Paul’s actions.

“Mate, I get the feeling you’re desperate,” he said, lifting his arse up so that Paul could drag down his underwear.

“The damn children interrupting us the whole week,” Paul muttered, “I knew we should’ve thought about having them a bit longer.”

John was almost lost in the fit of laughter that bubbled out from his mouth.

“You should’ve said that _14_ years ago-” he gasped, and then his laughter turned into moans when Paul leaned up and took him into his hand, kissing John’s stomach before licking a long stripe up to his chest, just for the sake of it.

“How about, since you’re so tired, that you just lay back and let me do the work?” he grinned, fingers never stopping their movements. John shuddered and nodded several times, lifting his legs so that Paul had a marvellous access to all of him.

“Sounds like a plan,” John groaned, and Paul chuckled before looking around.

“The lube somewhere in your secret hides?”

“Should be,” John said, and Paul started reaching for John’s bedside table’s drawer, wanking at John with a slightly slower speed—

The handle of the bedroom door went down.

Paul grabbed John and violently pushed him head first under the covers before the other man had time to even utter a sound. Paul managed to get himself under the blanket as well just when the door opened (fortunately so that whoever coming in had to first go around it to be able to see the bed). It was dead silent, and Paul could feel John slightly shaking against his legs, undoubtedly with suppressed laughter.

Chuck came into the room, his hair sticking up, his small fist rubbing his other eye.

“Pop?” he said, voice sleepy and weak.

“Yes?” Paul said, barely able to keep a straight face. He was going to— he was going to file a divorce, because he couldn’t let go of his children, but he _couldn_ _’t_ live in a house with John without being able to have _at least one good fuck within the week—_

“Dad became a wolf and ate me,” the six-year old said, his lower lip starting to wobble now slightly. Paul sighed to cover up the sudden pain in his throat that holding back his laughter caused. John’s shaking increased exponentially.

“Oh, darling, I’m sure Dad isn’t really going to do that,” he said with big, big sympathy, inhaled deeply and then got out of the bed. He took a few quick strides towards Chuck and picked the boy up, effectively blocking the bed from his range of sight.

“Let me sing you a little protection song, so that _no one_ turns into a wolf and eats you, okay?” he said and felt Chuck nod against his shoulder as he started walking out of the room.

He glanced towards the bed just before he lost the sight of it.

The blanket was shaking.

***~**~***

“I’m filing a divorce.”

“It wasn’t _my_ fault, though…”

“You gave the sperm. It’s your fault.”

“Careful now, you don’t want me to… _eat_ you, do you?”

“If you dare to make that joke once more I’m filing a divorce.”

*~**~*

Sunday rolled by, they were still married, Paul was still sulking about John’s lower regions being unavailable for now, and John had locked himself into the office after four hours of sleep, his face resembling that of a tired zombie (as Dave said in the morning, asking if something was wrong since John looked _“even more like death than usually”,_ which had had Paul laughing despite his angry horniness, and John just looking like he was moving beyond the grave). He hadn’t come out of the room ever since, or Paul was too busy wallowing in self-pity to notice any possible visits to the loo upstairs. The problem, the real, actual problem was that Paul _couldn_ _’t_ be angry at his kids for _existing,_ so naturally he had to direct that frustration towards other things. Like John, who was at least _partly_ at fault here.

And now that Paul thought about it, John was _completely_ at fault here. Without him, Paul’s neither regions wouldn’t have _had_ the need to explode!! He had been doing just fine without _any_ sex before the man waltzed into his life! Damn fucker.

So Paul sulked, and huffed at the cats, and glared at the office door whenever he went past it.

Okay, he _might_ have been over-dramatic about it, but he was _dying_ with blue balls, and had he not known for a fact that John was as well, he probably would’ve been sucking the man off under the drawing table just now (and wouldn’t be the first time at that). But no… John was suffering as well, and Paul would _let_ him suffer. Served him right. Arsehole.

(Christ, he wanted that arsehole.)

To keep himself occupied, Paul did many things. He played with Vera and her Barbies and let Chuck paint his nails a lovely shade of orange that would go very well with his _“ugly brown old man satin jeans”_ (named lovingly by yours truly, one Husband) that he very often used at work. He tried holding a conversation with Dave, but that ended in five minutes after the received silence became overpowering, so Paul really couldn’t say that had kept him occupied at all.

In the end, after going for a run with Martha, sweating his back off and just feeling worse when he kept thinking about John in his sports gear, he settled into an armchair in the living room. Thisbe serving as support behind his head, he relaxed his mind and started planning the next week’s classes, knowing that that would take many hours, and by the time Paul was finished, John would be out of the room and _in need._

Except that… after he had been going through the files on his computer and flipping through his notebooks, he came to the conclusion that he had already planned the next week’s classes, since it would be mostly reviewing earlier stuff — the exams were right behind the corner. Soon the summer holiday would start, and the whole family would pack and go to the cottage for two weeks or so. It was a well-deserved holiday for everyone, save for John who would be working anyway. Probably.

Usually not having any work to do was a good thing. But now Paul would’ve really needed it to keep his mind off of one certain dick-owning person. There was _nothing_ to do — the kids were entertaining themselves quite fine, and since Paul had already made feeble attempts to connect with them without much success, he couldn’t really try again. Martha had become a doormat, exhausted from the run, and the cats weren’t for any good either… they only served as decorative touches, their fat bodies lying about whenever they weren’t eating.

There was, simply put, nothing to do, and so he ended up lying on the office floor, moaning and whining to John, who, even when the _cause_ of Paul’s problems, was the one Paul would vent off to.

“I’m bored,” Paul said.

“Clean the loo,” John answered.

“You’re an arse,” Paul said.

“I love you, too,” John answered.

“I hate your work,” Paul said.

“Go do yours,” John answered.

“I want you,” Paul said, his voice becoming slightly more whiny.

“I want you too,” John answered, voice slightly absent-minded as he leaned closer to the drawing to scribble with his _Copic_ markers.

“I miss your dick,” Paul whined.

“Me too. I wonder if it still exists,” John answered.

“I need sex,” Paul moaned. He saw John twitch at that and thought _“serves him right. Arsehole”,_ which would’ve made him victorious had he not already been semi-hard, and _dying._

“I think I fucked up the sheep,” John said, reaching for a white correction-marker.

“Just _fifteen_ minutes,” Paul pleaded, sounding like Chuck when the boy wanted extra time on the computer.

“I fucked up the sheep ‘cos I was thinking about fucking _you_ against the wall,” John said in a conversational tone, and Paul let out a small, rage-filled noise, his body jerking against the floor. John, the bastard, started laughing, although the sound was a bit strained.

“John!!” Paul said.

“It’s quite a strong image,” John said in a slightly blank, emotionless voice and trailed off, rubbing the correction marker against the paper.

“Jesus,” Paul, in turn, rubbed his face with both hands and pictured John pushing him against the wall, snogging him breathless, and then thrusting up into him. There had been one rather memorable evening a few years back, when all the kids had been with John’s parents, and John and Paul had had the whole house to themselves. Needless to say that they had used it _well._

Paul just _knew_ John was thinking about that event. But it wasn’t like they were starving for sex and never had time to do anything — no, usually they’d manage to squeeze in a few times during the week, while the children were doing their hobbies and such, but now… now, it had been _six_ days. _Six._ And that would’ve been nothing, really, but now they had _tried_ for a rerun during those six days for _three_ times, and each time had left them aching, but unable to do _anything._

“God, I want your cock,” he said, and before John managed to give another one of his stupid, evasive answers, he got up from the floor and marched over to the man. Without giving one glance at the damned drawing he yanked John’s saddle chair back, his husband letting out an alarmed sound.

“Paul, watch out—” he started, but Paul was already crawling under the table, huffing and making his best to look as irritated as possible when he turned to face John, nestled tightly under the wooden drawing table. He slipped his hands under John’s knees and pulled, the saddle chair rolling easily towards him with John doing nothing, closing him in.

Ugh, he was so weak — this was exactly what Paul wasn’t _supposed_ to be doing! John had to suffer because of the misery he had bestowed upon Paul! He had to suffer… But he was looking at Paul with a half-amused, half-needy expression, and that was enough for Paul to reach forward and start undoing John’s belt. Screw it — he had _needs,_ and he was going to act according to them, revenging John be damned.

“How am I supposed to draw when you’re taking all the space for me legs?” John asked, his gaze turning scorching when he grinned at Paul. Paul rolled his eyes, pushed John’s knees apart, and fitted himself between them into a comfortable and very, _very_ familiar position, resting his elbows on top of John’s thighs.

“I think you should start wearing shorts,” he pondered, pulling John’s zip down. John let out a faint sound, and his gaze moved up, focusing on his work. He leaned forward and Paul could hear him take up a marker again.

“I mean, it’s June,” Paul continued, and then rubbed his palm against John’s revealed space briefs that had been bought for Dave, but were too big. So naturally John had snatched them for himself. To Paul’s utter delight and satisfaction, John seemed to be hard already — and not just a little.

“If you say so,” John said dubiously, his voice coming out tight. “You just want to ogle these fabulous legs of mine, you oaf.”

“I could try and get tanned at the cottage?” Paul offered with raised eyebrows, applying pressure to where it probably itched most, and John jerked against his hand, his breath hitching.

“D-deal,” he managed, and Paul could see from his arm’s movements that he had started colouring the sheep again. Chuckling at John’s surprisingly amazing multitasking skills, he pulled the man’s dick out. He was not in the mood for prolonging this any more than necessary — it felt like both of them had been hard ever since Thursday evening.

Without a warning, he leaned in and engulfed John’s member in one go, humming as John’s scent hit his nostrils strongly, embracing him. He had long ago fallen in love with this musky scent, and funnily enough, whenever he and John didn’t see each other for some time, this was what Paul missed the most. This scent came with the knowledge that John was _probably_ enjoying himself immensely, which in turn always, _always_ made Paul happy.

He pulled up and flicked his tongue around John’s head, making the man cry out softly, his hips bucking and his dick sliding back into Paul’s mouth. Knowing John preferred more detailed stimulation over just plain bobbing up and down, Paul made sure to pay special attention to the soft skin around the tip, playing with John’s foreskin with his tongue, while he wrapped his fingers around the base of the member.

It didn’t take long for John to start moving his legs slightly with the movements of Paul’s mouth and hand, letting out soft sounds that Paul just _loved._ He would’ve loved it more if he had had John writhing and moaning and yelling filthy things at him, but with the kids in the house they had to first and foremost clamp down on their tongue and just hold the sounds in.

John’s hand was still moving, and Paul knew it to be only from practise. The thought both amused him and made him triumphant, and so he added a small-ish extra suck that had John let out a strangled sound, accompanied by a gasp. John’s free hand fell into Paul’s hair, just softly touching in a loving way, and Paul hummed gently as he took the man deeper into his mouth again.

And, of course, the door banged open.

“Dad? Do you know where Pop is? I’ve looked everywhere, but he’s not answering—”

John’s hand in his hair tightened its hold, now hanging on with dear life, and what Paul felt oddly resembled someone downing a bucket of freezing, icy water down his neck while pushing his head inside an oven. He froze completely, not daring to move — the office was dark, right? John’s lamp only illuminated what was _above_ the table, and the underneath it should be entirely shadowed — _right??_ Paul _should_ be out of sight as long as he didn’t draw any attention to himself with movements — _any movement,_ including _pulling off._

With John’s dick still in his mouth, he sent a small, compassionate thought at his husband, braced himself, and took a deep breath through his nostrils.

“No,” John answered after a beat, his voice coming out in a peculiar sort of gurgle. Paul could hear Vera huff and thought wildly of the inaccuracy of that sentence. His heart was starting to beat so loudly he was _sure_ it resonated in the floor, and he hoped that even if he got caught, Vera would still be innocent enough to not understand why Paul was… just… spending time under the table… casually hanging about… He could almost hear John’s brain turning over and over, the man trying to come up with a sensible explanation _in case_ things got _worse._

“He’s nowhere but we wanted to watch telly and we were told not to disturb you—”

“You can watch telly,” John cut her off curtly, his right hand’s movements looking somewhat more aggressive than before, trying extra hard to look like he was actually doing his work.

“Can we watch _Toy Story,_ I wanna watch it but Chuck wants _Winnie the Pooh_ again, but I don’t want it again, ‘cos we watched it the last time, and I’ve seen it so many times anyway…” Vera sounded like she was ready to talk about this subject for hours. John’s hand twitched in Paul’s hair when drool started running out of his mouth, sliding down the man’s dick.

 _“Toy Story_ is _fine,_ _”_ John shifted slightly and his breath hitched. His thighs were trembling under Paul’s arms, and Paul had never sympathised with anyone more than now. He could only imagine — Christ, he could only imagine how it would feel like to have John latched onto his dick, but not _doing_ anything. This _must_ have been some form of torture in the medieval times.

“I want _Winnie—_ _”_ there was Chuck’s voice from outside the door, and Paul could almost hear John starting to count to ten. Meanwhile Paul had very well time to feel horrified about the fact that not only was it Vera at the door, but _Chuck_ as well.

“If last time you watched _Winnie,_ _”_ John started, voice sounding like someone was strangling him, “now, by the democratic rules that exist in this house, you’ll watch _Toy Story._ _”_

“Democ—” Chuck sounded confused, and, as if the situation wasn’t bad enough, Dave’s voice piped up, and Paul really wanted to _die._

“But I was gonna see a game—”

“Jesus Christ,” John whispered with the sharp inhale he took. Paul _would_ have laughed at everything going _so_ not according to plans, had his jaw not been aching and had he still not been very much _sucking his husband off right now._ He wondered whether he could do the smallest of movements and pull slightly back, let John slide out of his mouth ever-so-slowly, just so that John wouldn’t be _suffering_ so much, and could tell their kids off with his brain working more effectively — but he knew that any movement now would have John let out the most undignified sound in existence that would be impossible to explain, because Paul was an expert on _all sounds John_ — and Dave, _Dave would get it,_ just because John could not be handled, and cracked _enough_ mild jokes about sex in the presence of their oldest. _Goddammit John—_

“Can’t you watch the game afterwards?” John asked, voice going weaker and weaker by the second. Dave let out a displeased sound, but that was the noise he made when he knew his parents were correct and he had no space to argue.

“Okay, right, so it’s _Toy Story_ then.” John saw his moment coming and took it. Paul praised him in his head, really needing to close his mouth and swallow — God, this was the last blow job John was going to get in a while. “I’ll be working now, kids.”

“Okay!” Vera’s voice was cheerful since it was basically her winning the whole thing. “Can we do popco—”

 _“Yes.”_ John almost groaned, and there was a bunch of happy noises made by several kids, before the door was closed, and silence took over the office.

Paul pulled off, and discovered he hadn’t been wrong about the sound John would let out.

“Oh. My. God,” Paul himself let out a hearty groan and rested his forehead against John’s thigh, feeling absolutely spent. He felt like he needed to lie down for a moment — just a moment, like, maybe a week or so. “You’re never, _ever_ getting another one. Thank _God_ you’re not bigger than this… Jesus _Christ—_ _”_

John, meanwhile, was just gasping for breath, slumped against the drawing table. His death grip of Paul’s hair had disappeared the moment the tension left his body, and Paul feared the man’s spine had actually snapped in half.

“Bloody hell,” John choked out. _“Fuck.”_

“Hang on, I need a moment,” Paul swallowed, coughing when his voice came out raspy and thick. “John, we’ll never have another baby.”

“And here I was — here I was thinking about twins,” John more or less moaned, voice muffled by his table. Paul hoped he wasn’t squishing his face against the _drawing._

“Urgh,” he said, feeling like it resonated with his current feelings perfectly. Then, slowly, he wrapped his fingers again around John’s length, to a deep, helpless groan from the man, and started wanking him off at a slow pace.

Three minutes later John came into his mouth, and five minutes after that Paul came inside his briefs like a teenage boy, his moans muffled by John who more or less flattened him against the wall with his body, drinking the sounds from his lips. They stayed still for a few minutes, breathing against each other, and Paul wasn’t sure whether his head spinning was from lack of water, from his orgasm, or from the unbelievable fifteen minutes they had just had. He could only hope John was feeling the same.

“Now,” John breathed, pressing his face against the side of Paul’s throat, the touch of his nose soft on Paul’s skin, “have fun explaining to the kids where you’ve been.”

Paul groaned and hugged John harder, wondering whether he could send the man out to serve as a distraction, sneak outside the house, and then come back in wearing an innocent face. He doubted that would work.

He didn’t have much time to think about it, though, since John threw him out ten seconds later, sighing that Paul had already taken too much time away from the drawing.

Deeply offended by John’s work overruling their happy and loving marriage, Paul didn’t even try to come up with an explanation when he trudged into the living room with a sulky expression. At Dave asking about his whereabouts he answered _“just there”_ with a shrug, and found that the kids didn’t even demand for anything more specific, passing it with a nod.

Cheered up by the realisation that children rarely _cared_ about what their parents were up to, Paul let himself enjoy the blissful peace left by the orgasm, and settled on the couch with Chuck and two cats climbing into his lap, concentrating on spending a great Sunday evening with his kids while his significant other continued suffering in the dark office.

Suck on _that,_ John. Mwahaha.


	4. "What The Fuck, Dave", Intensifying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter warnings:** Swearing, mentions of violence, overflowing feelings, Dave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been quite a few busy weeks, and this chapter was TOUGH. it's not easy putting yourself into the shoes of a 42-year old man with a husband and kids, so i apologise to anyone who is in that situation and feels that my portrayal is FALSE. i did my best,, also, i have to admit that i love Dave and won't hurt him in the future. my son must be protected
> 
> Hopefully you'll enjoy this chapter, even though it is a bit on the heavy side. Next time we'll be finally going to the cottage! .............and meet some FRIENDS..........................
> 
> NO THANKS TO PUCK COS SHE'S TOO BUSY TO TALK TO ME AND WAS NO SUPPORT >:c arsehole A big thanks to [Drearymondays](https://drearymondays.tumblr.com/) though, for helping me figure out the horror that is English school system! <3

John rushed into the kitchen, his hair brushed and one of his more smashing outfits on. He grabbed himself one of Paul’s ready-made toasts, and then proceeded to drink the man’s morning tea, despite the complaints that these unfair, unexpected acts drew from his husband. Paul, just having simply been caught up in admiring John’s arse in the man’s well-fitted trousers, simply had _no time_ to react.

A moment passed with John drinking Paul’s tea with large gulps, and Paul took in his appearance more carefully. He had his white corduroy trousers on, accompanied by a light brown dress shirt and a smoke blue vest on top of that. On top of all that he was wearing a grey _tie._ A _tie._ Granted, it looked like it had been put on rather haphasardly, but… it was still a _tie._

He _did_ look really good, which served to make Paul suspicious — what was going on? Usually John didn’t give a rat’s arse about the way he looked, since he rarely even left the house during the days, and if so it was to do the groceries or go hang out with their friends, so…

“Looking good,” Paul commented with a small smile, easily forgiving John for taking his tea. There was, after all, a whole teapot full of it, and John had given Paul enough eye-candy to keep him lost in his mental film theatre for _days._

John downed the rest of the tea in one go, and then wiped his mouth, letting out a small exhale.

“Thanks,” he said with a strained voice, turning to place the empty mug on the kitchen counter. “There’s a meeting in thirty minutes — about this one advertising campaign — gotta go!”

Paul watched how John disappeared from the kitchen in a flurry and shook his head with a small smile. He was pretty sure John had only remembered the meeting about twenty minutes ago, because otherwise Paul would have already heard about it.

“Can you do the groceries on your way back?” he called out into the hallway and could hear John’s responding grunt where the man was looking for that pair of shoes that didn’t have holes in them. “Thanks, love,” Paul returned to the task of making himself a new toast, and hummed cheerfully until he heard the front door slam with a quick _“bye”._ He hoped John managed to catch the bus in time — otherwise he would have to ask Paul to drop him off, and while that didn’t bother him much, it was probably still quite a way from Paul’s work.

The exams were well on their way, and Paul wouldn’t have to be at school before 10am — which was why he was enjoying his breakfast in an unhurried manner, planning to leave in about 30 minutes time. Dave had already left the house an hour ago, and Paul had walked Vera and Chuck to their primary school some 10 minutes ago. The school was situated almost opposite to their house, which made mornings much less of a hassle. Usually the two were fine going to school on their own, but Paul had taken Martha for her morning walk at the same time… he loved lazy mornings.

Sympathising with John’s lost lazy morning, Paul got himself ready for work and left for school. He would only have three hours today, but he would have to read through a bunch of essays before the end of the week, and he was planning on going to some nice café after work to do that, and to have some quiet time for himself that didn’t include animals, children, or the worst of them all, a _husband._

He should’ve known that the afternoon wasn’t going to be _that_ easy.

***~**~***

Four hours later Paul was just about to start his search of a nice café, all of the essays stuffed into his laptop bag, his laptop stuffed into his armpit, when his mobile phone rang. For a moment he contemplated on not answering, since putting everything down would probably result in a hurricane of papers and electronic devices, but the phone kept on ringing, and once it had quieted down for a second it went off again, and so Paul didn’t really have a choice. At least it wouldn’t be anyone _selling_ anything, since two consecutive calls usually meant it was something more serious. Maybe John had come home and noticed there was no toilet paper left in the house.

He wriggled himself inside the car, put his laptop and his bag on the seat next to him, and reached for his phone that had somehow disappeared into his pockets. He glanced at the caller screen before answering, and a frown broke through his forehead; it was Dave’s form tutor.

All thoughts about not answering disappeared, and he swiped the screen before bringing the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

_“Mr. McCartney? Hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time…”_

“Not at all,” Paul said, “I was just leaving work.”

_“Good, good… I would’ve contacted your husband, but he didn’t answer. Um, I’m calling about Dave… unfortunately he’s been involved in a fight. Could you or your husband possibly come here into my office as soon as possible?”_

Paul sat back in his seat, staring out of the window. Was he — had he understood right? Had Dave been in a _fight??_

He almost said something very unintelligent (like “huh” or “what”), but reminded himself that he was an English teacher, knew a thing or two about performing and talking in front of other people, and collected himself, staring out of the car window.

“I can come right away,” he said, heart beginning to pound against his chest while emotions shot through his chest like gunfire — anger, betrayal, worry, and confusion, all in such fast successions that he ended up not knowing what to feel, and settled upon cool professionalism. What the _fuck_ was Dave up to _now??_

“He’s not hurt, is he?”

_“No, no… he is fine.”_

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Paul said, imagining what that meant. Probably that it had been _Dave_ doing most of the fighting… if they were talking about a physical fight, that was. Maybe… maybe they had just exchanged severe insults.

Somehow, Paul doubted that. Mr. Cooper had sounded way too serious for that.

He drove to Dave’s school after leaving a voice message to John (who had probably forgotten to switch his phone on after the meeting) and made his way to Mr. Cooper’s office, wondering about the teacher’s first name on the way — he was sure he had heard it, and they had met before due to their work, but _what_ was it… Jeremy? Jim? Jimmy? Something like that, maybe. Or then it was Sly.

_‘No, that’s someone else. Sly Cooper. I know that name,’_ he thought hazily as he climbed the stairs towards the teacher’s office, no idea who Sly Cooper could be. It had something to do with the kids.

God, it felt weird having to be the one to do this — without exception it had always been John to take care of visits to schools, since his agenda was mostly empty. Paul only knew how to be at the _other_ side of the situation, since he had had to do his fare share of talking to parents along the years. Damn John — but then again, it wasn’t fair that it was always him who had to deal with stuff like that… he complained about it jokingly, but Paul did feel a bit guilty with the way things had turned out; he felt like he hadn’t contributed enough to the kids’ lives (something which, according to John, was utter bullshit).

Well, here he was, doing his fare share of contributing. He stopped in front of Mr. Cooper’s office, took a deep breath to prepare himself, and knocked on the door. He tried schooling his face into a pleasantly neutral one, but didn’t succeed — he felt the frown come back on his forehead, and his expression tightened.

The door opened and a man of Paul’s age appeared, looking at him with a sympathetic gaze. He offered a hand and  the two men shook hands amicably.

“Glad that you could come so quickly, Mr. McCartney — I hope no bigger plans were ruined?” Dave’s form tutor — Jeremy, Paul had spotted the name on the door — said, his voice slightly stressed under the professional, friendly tone.

“No, not at all… busy with essays,” Paul said, trying to bring light into the situation by referring to something that sure was familiar to both of them. Mr. Cooper chuckled faintly and nodded as he let go of Paul’s hand, motioning for him to step inside the office.

“Aren’t we all,” he said as Paul walked past him, eyes landing on Dave, who was sitting on one of the chairs in front of the office table, hands clasped between his knees, head hanging between his tense shoulders.

Paul didn’t say anything when he sat down next to the boy, just looked at him with his lips tightly pressed together. Dave glanced at him briefly before lowering his head again, his expression set into a stubborn pout. Paul sighed; it was going to be a rough ride.

Mr. Cooper closed the door and then went around his office table to sit into his chair. He placed his forearms on the table’s black surface and leaned forward, looking at Dave with an expression that was stern, but not accusing — something for which Paul was glad about. You could never really know how teachers reacted in situations like this; Paul himself tried to be as fair as possible, but he knew some who would not try to understand the _reasons_ behind the teenagers acting up.

“I think it’s better to start by explaining your dad what happened,” he started, glancing at Paul, who was staring at Dave intensely, trying to read the boy’s mind. He didn’t understand why Dave would suddenly start fighting — he had never been violent and was a kind boy at heart, even though he had done his best to rebel against his parents during these past years. That was a passing phase, Paul knew it well, but it didn’t make dealing with it any easier. And things like this — when they were completely unexpected, against Dave’s character, that’s when it got hard; when it was something Paul didn’t _understand._

To Paul’s knowledge, Dave had never, _ever_ laid a punch in his life, but now Paul — to his horror, since it made it all so _real_ — could see the boy rubbing his left hand over his reddened knuckles subconsciously, and it was clear what had happened; anger welled inside Paul, but at the same time his head felt faint.

“Do you want to tell him?” Mr. Cooper tried, but to no avail; Dave avoided both of their gazes, and kept his mouth shut. His form tutor waited for a few moments before sighing, turning his head to look at Paul.

“Apparently there was some sort of a dispute between Dave and a couple of boys from another class after school — the teachers were quick to interfere, but Dave managed to hit one of them, er, on the cheek. He is currently being seen by the school nurse.”

Paul looked at Dave with steely eyes, his stomach churning with anger and disappointment. Whatever they had taught Dave, it wasn’t to rely on violence. Paul and John had their past of punching people, due to the unfortunate circumstances of them having a relationship with two dicks and some people not liking that, but they had never talked about that in front of the children, nor had they had to perform such acts while the kids had been in the family. He couldn’t _understand_ what could have made Dave act out of his character like this.

“I know that this isn’t like you at all, Dave,” Mr. Cooper said, frowning. “But hitting other students — hitting _anyone_ is not right, and I know you know it. We’ll have a discussion with everyone involved tomorrow, and I’m also giving you a detention for next Saturday.”

The only clue about Dave being displeased with what he was hearing was the way his lips pressed tightly together. Paul exhaled deeply, leaning back in his chair, rubbing the base of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, doing his best not to start shouting at his son. He had to keep his mind and be rational about this. There was a reason — Dave wouldn’t have _done_ it without a reason. He must have been provoked somehow, and very strongly, too, to have it end with Dave _hitting_ somebody…

Dave, true to his sulking teenager self, wouldn’t say a word, and eventually Mr. Cooper let them go, but not before he had got Dave grumpily nod in agreement of explaining his actions tomorrow. Paul suspected Mr. Cooper wanted to leave the delicate matter of _fishing out information_ to John and Paul, and Dave would most likely tell them what had happened once he was in a safe environment without any authority figures staring him down. (Because parents clearly didn’t count as ones.)

They walked to the car in silence, Paul’s emotions switching to plain fury now that they were out of _his_ safe and calming environment — a teacher’s office. He knew Dave knew it, the lad tagging along behind him, his feet dragging against the ground. Paul didn’t look back at him when he got inside the car, and waited for Dave to slip on the left front seat, proceeding to cross his arms over his chest broodingly.

Paul pushed the car keys into the ignition and almost turned the key to start up the car, the muscles in his arm tensing up, but he paused and let go of the key. He turned to Dave with a frown, resting his hands on top of the wheel — he just couldn’t start driving with his mind in a state like this.

They stayed silent for a long time, before Paul spoke, bewildered and hurt.

“Why on earth would you do something like that?” he said, searching for Dave’s eyes. The lad proceeded to stare out of the window, slouched down in his seat, his face settled into the same stubborn line as in Mr. Cooper’s office, but Paul could catch a small wince at Paul’s betrayed tone.

_“David,”_ Paul said tightly, a bit hopelessly. He had _never_ had to deal with anything like this — he had no idea how to proceed, or what to say. He suddenly understood what lay behind the dumbfounded expressions of all those parents who had had to hear him say _“your child has punched another”._

_‘I need John,’_ he thought. John would know what to do, his emotions leading the way better than Paul’s logical mind. John would… probably explode for a moment, yell a bit, and maybe break the ice that way — Paul would be able to snatch onto something John sprouted in the heat of the moment, and then turn it into a valid, good question… And Dave would be obliged to answer with _both_ of his parents pressing on him.

“You have to tell me,” Paul tried for another tactic. He _hated_ this. “we _need_ to understand the situation for the consequences—”

“So whether I’m grounded for six months, or sixteen?” Dave said harshly, his voice defensive and aggressive, his body tensing. Paul’s eyebrows rose, his mouth settling into a thin line.

“Don’t use that tone on me,” he shot back, surprisingly relieved that Dave had answered — had offered him _something_ to grab on. He had a feeling that there was a heated argument looming in the future, but even that was better than Dave just… staying quiet, not explaining his actions. If it all came out during a shouting match, then so be it; Paul wanted to understand, and he _had_ to. He _couldn’t_ allow Dave just going around and _punching_ people for no reason.

“I can use whatever tone I can, can’t I? I’m already in trouble,” Dave answered, clearly scrambling to acquire the upper mental hand in the discussion, trying to show that Paul’s words didn’t affect him. Paul recognised the manner of speaking from their earlier fights where Dave was convinced he was right… and from any fight Paul and John had ever had.

“Yes, you are, but do you want to be in trouble with us against you, or trying to _help_ instead?”

Dave quieted down, and just resumed looking out of the window with a hard gaze.

Paul stared at him for a while, then turned towards the wheel, and started up the car.

The drive home was short, only ten minutes or so, but it was a precious ten minutes for Paul to contemplate everything, mulling Mr. Cooper’s words and Dave’s behaviour over and over in his head. It would’ve been easy to just fume and be angry, but the feeling that most dominated his mind was worry. There was something wrong with the whole situation, because he just couldn’t believe Dave would do something like that just out of… just out of random aggression.

Then again it was completely possible that he was just going through the five stages of grief, and was currently very stuck on denial. Wasn’t he also trying to find explanations to Dave’s actions — what if the lad had just decided to punch someone else, just like that, because he’d had… he’d had enough? He had felt like it? It didn’t seem right, and the thought didn’t sit well in Paul’s mind, making him grip the wheel a bit tighter than necessary. Was it possible for Dave to hit someone just because he felt like it?

No — there _had_ to be something more to it, since there had been an argument between Dave and the other boys as well, and Paul and John had to fish it all out of their reluctant teenager before tomorrow evening, or Dave would be completely at the mercy of the other boy’s parents. Paul couldn’t imagine them being very sympathetic with the situation… Unless there had been a good reason, indeed.

_‘There’s never a reason good enough,’_ he thought, stopping at the last red light before they would arrive to their neighbourhood. But as he entered their parking way and Dave was out of the car faster than light, another, stronger feeling made its way into the pit of his stomach, a memory wrapping itself around his mind while dread that was long-gone ghosted inside him.

_‘Unless it’s for protection.’_

***~**~***

John was just about to start enjoying his well-deserved afternoon tea, briefly wondering why only half of the household seemed to be home — and that was the half that John had personally fetched from school — when there was a slam of a car door and Paul’s distinct, familiar voice carrying from outside as the front door was opened.

_“Don’t run_ ** _anywhere!”_** the man called with a tone that made John’s hopes of a nice, stress-free evening fly out of the window. He took a deep breath, the scent of his tea filling his nostrils, strengthening the mental walls around the “don’t lash out at the kids” - department that resided somewhere deep in his brain, and got up with a sigh.

He stopped at the kitchen doorway, catching Dave pulling off his shoes with an expression that already told John this was about something more than just a normal broody day. Dave was actively ignoring him, even though John knew the lad could see him from the corner of his eye — and then Paul appeared at the front door, his face set into a tight expression, his cheeks pale and a look in his eyes that John couldn’t quite read. It was altogether terrifying.

“Kitchen, right now,” Paul said, and his tone left no place for questions. Dave grumbled something under his breath (that sounded suspiciously like _“yeah, sure, whatever, wanker”,_ but it… it _couldn’t_ really be?) and pushed past John, shoulders set tight.

“Woah, lad,” John said after having received something akin to an elbow in his ribs. “What’s going on?” he turned to Paul for questions, who motioned for him to close the kitchen door. John shot a small glance at Dave, and slightly hesitantly shut the door, closing their eldest inside. Unless Dave decided to climb over the garden walls, he would stay where he was… although with Paul looking the way he did, John wouldn’t have blamed Dave for running.

“What’s this?” he hissed, hurrying towards Paul who suddenly looked like he was about to topple over, and maybe be sick as well.

_‘Hopefully not on the new carpet,’_ shot through John’s head as he crossed his arms over his chest, stopping when he had professionally crossed into Paul’s personal space.

“Dave’s… Dave’s hit someone at school,” Paul said, his voice now completely devoid of emotions. Ugh. John hated when he did that. “In the face. A _proper_ punch it was, too. All red knuckles ‘n that.”

_“…What?”_ John squeaked after a long, stunned silence where Paul’s words repeated themselves inside his head in a vague, incomprehensible pattern. _“What—”_

_“You_ haven’t got your phone on!” Paul said suddenly in a surprisingly accusing tone, looking at John hard in the eyes. John pressed his lips tightly together, trying to remember where the damn device even was.

“Sorry,” he said after a moment, still not able to understand Paul’s previous words. “There was the meeting— I forgot… what do you mean he’s _punched_ someone??”

“Just that,” Paul said, finally ridding himself from his shoes, his computer safely clutched in his armpit, a bunch of papers almost falling out from his laptop bag.

“He’s _punched—_ Dave?? _David??”_

Paul nodded, still looking at John like he was angry at _him_ for being unavailable.

_‘That one time when I’m actually apart from that death-causing, time-swallowing machine, and he finds reason to complain,’_ John thought hazily as he turned to stare at the kitchen door, and felt how the walls around his anger department crumbled down… there was a _much_ more important case at hand than cry over his phone.

He had barely time to follow his own actions as he walked to the door and more or less yanked it open, marching in with fire and rage.

“What the _fuck,_ Dave??” he yelled, and Dave jumped a little before lifting his gaze defiantly, arms crossed over his chest. He looked so much like Paul when met with John confronting him that John faltered for a moment, ending up with staring at his son with flaming eyes.

Paul walked past him and headed straight for his still steaming tea mug. When passing him, he squeezed John’s shoulder briefly, a small gesture that could be interpreted as both a calming gesture as well as an apology; John decided to take it as both.

Both he and Dave followed Paul silently as the man sat heavily in John’s chair, took a small sip of the tea in front of him, and then turned weary eyes on the teenager.

“It’ll be easier if you explain,” he said, his voice leaving no room for arguments. Dave still looked like he wanted to try, but John jumped in, his head spinning from shock.

“Dave, what the serious bloody fuck is this?? Wasn’t the party enough — you’re now going around, _punching people??”_ he crossed his arms over his chest, planting himself in front of the doorway just in case Dave wanted to make a run for it. Dave looked at him with a small pout, glanced at Paul, and he unconsciously started rubbing his right hand knuckles as he cast his eyes down — and then suddenly there were tears in the corners of his eyes, his mouth quivering.

John stared, and Paul stared, and John let his arms drop from his chest.

Just the pure shock of that sight was enough to make John’s anger disappear as fast as it had originally come. Paul lowered John’s mug on the table and got up, and then both of them hurried towards their son at the same time. They grabbed him almost simultaneously and dragged him into the living room, pushing him down on the couch before joining him. John pulled Dave against himself while Paul grabbed the lad’s hands, running his fingers softly over Dave’s red knuckles.

Dave broke into sobs, and John started rocking him, letting out gentle, soothing sounds while shooting a worried glance at Paul, whose face had turned even paler, his expression more bewildered and scared than anything else. Their eyes met, and John raised his eyebrows helplessly. How were they supposed to handle _this,_ then — it had been _years_ since they had seen Dave cry (at least in front of them)!

“Dave, love, it’s— it’s fine, it’s fine,” Paul tried, squeezing Dave’s hand tightly now. “It’s alright, honey, just… just take your time, alright? It’ll be fine.”

John, not really knowing what to say, hummed to that agreeingly while Dave’s sobs hardened, the boy turning his head to bury his face into his shoulder.

“Just tell us when you’re ready,” John tried, and Paul nodded along with it, giving him more courage to continue. “You’ll feel better when it’s out.”

He could feel Dave nod against his shoulder, heaving sobs escaping his mouth freely in a way that neither of them had seen in a while — the last time had probably been when Dave had been very upset about Martha eating his favourite Star Wars socks about four years ago.

Paul moved onto rubbing his back, his face filled with open worry. He looked at John with his lips pressing tightly together, and John understood perfectly what his husband was feeling at the moment. John was probably able to cope with this a bit better, if only by having received a rather harsh education on crying children during his years as a full-time dad — Paul mostly saw such things at school, where you probably wouldn’t run into anything like this on normal basis. John wagered there was a rather full-blown panic going on in Paul’s mind, since that wasn’t far from what he himself was feeling.

What on _earth_ had happened for Dave to react like this??

Little by little, the boy’s heart-wrenching sobs started to get quieter, and finally he was just sniffling softly, his fingers holding Paul’s in a loose grip. Paul, not one to sit down for long periods of time without doing anything, had softly turned Dave’s hand around and started examining the lad’s knuckles. John could see him almost twitching with want to hold something cold against them, but they both knew that now wasn’t the time for that.

They disentangled themselves a bit when Dave initiated it, sitting miserably between them, hunched and small, pulling his hands away from Paul to wrap them around himself protectively. John and Paul sat quietly, and waited, looking at each other to both strengthen each other, as well as take off the pressure from their sniffling son. Paul’s eyes held a warning look — John had better not start talking and make things worse by saying something rash and ill-advised, as was his general way of doing things. John had to admit that Paul was probably right, and so he stayed quiet, biting his lip to ensure that his mouth stayed closed, and waited.

“Some boys were — they were talkin’ shit,” Dave started with a subdued voice after what felt like an _eternity_ in John’s hyper-activated, impatient brain. “I just… I just heard, and I didn’t— I didn’t _mean_ it!” he looked up at Paul slowly, suddenly guilty and hopeless at the same time, the sight breaking John’s heart, surprisingly rendering him unable to think of anything good to say… since pretty much everything he _had_ was along _“what the fuck, Dave??”_ and that really wouldn’t have made the situation better… even without Paul’s careful glare in his direction he understood that.

“Just tell us what happened,” Paul said in a calm, collected voice, and John wanted to jump into his arms and kiss him dead for managing to sound that composed, like he really had the situation under control. It wasn’t a tone Paul had used on their children before — there hadn’t been a reason, really — but John recognised it as the voice he’d use when things went really bad, and Paul would make the situation sound less severe with just sheer will. (Like if, say, someone tried to punch John on the street, and Paul had to drag him bleeding back to their flat, and _everything’s fine, John, it’ll be alright. Just walk. Just another step. Look, home’s just around the corner. It’ll be fine.)_

Dave seemed to hesitate for a moment, glancing at both of them, before returning his gaze on the coffee table.

“I overheard— these guys from the C — they were — they were talking _shit_ about two guys from the C and the E, they’d seen ‘em holding hands,” he started, voice distant but not without anger at the memory. “I told ‘em they shouldn’t do that.”

Silence. John and Paul waited.

“They said… they said that of course I’d… _‘protect the faggots’_ since you… my parents are… gay.” Dave’s lower lip started wobbling again, and Paul reached out to take his hand, Dave answering the gesture by holding on tight.

“And apparently my… _mum_ must’ve hated me too, to give me to two… men!” rage filled Dave’s voice, and it wasn’t hard to guess anymore why he had punched one of the boys. Hell, by now John was all fuming and ready to do some neck-cracking himself, and the only thing that kept him seated and silent was Paul’s sorrowful gaze. There was smoldering fire underneath his expression as well, and John knew that tomorrow, Paul would give no mercy to the boy that Dave had punched. Nor would John, for that matter. On top of it all, he was quite sure that Dave was censuring his tale a lot, probably leaving off a bunch of other nasty words… none of them new to John nor Paul, though.

“I told ‘em you two are the best dads ever,” Dave continued quietly. “They said… they said that y-you two d-deserve to _die,”_ he broke into sobs again. “A-and I didn't think, I wasn't— I h-hit the closest one.”

John sighed and pulled Dave against his armpit, rubbing his arm in what he hoped was a soothing action. Paul seemed too shocked to form words, and had John not been the rash, always-ready-for-a-verbal-fight type of a person, he might have been, too.

“I hope you at least delivered the punch properly,” he said quietly, voice seething with anger, and Dave heaved another sob while Paul casted him a berating look.

“Thanks for telling us, love,” Paul said softly, thankfully already back on track. John realised that maybe in this situation cheap jokes weren’t really the thing that Dave needed, and decided to hold onto his tongue.

For now.

“We understand why you did it,” John said instead of a terrible joke, Paul nodding next to him, seemingly relieved that John was taking this seriously. What an arse! Of _course_ John took something like this seriously! (But truthfully… one never knew with him.)

“But hitting other people is still something you should never do. No matter what.”

Dave nodded, trying to wipe off his tears.

“I know,” he said, voice small and pathetic, and John’s heart clenched at the way it sounded. Their Dave _shouldn’t_ sound like that. “I just couldn’t… I reacted and… I’m really sorry about it, dads, I am.”

“We know. Hitting anyone is wrong, but… we understand. Better than most,” Paul said softly, and pain surged through John’s body at having to hear such a tone in his husband’s voice. Sad and firm, but also apologising in a way — and John understood the sentiment, since he was feeling slightly apologising as well, underneath all the anger, for there was guilt for being the reason why Dave had to go through something like this. Neither John or Paul were usually stressed about their relationship or what it seemed to mean to other people, but in a situation like this… They knew they had nothing to be sorry for, but it was difficult to shake off the years of thinking their relationship in the negative light that was bestowed upon them by the society.

“Say, why don’t we continue this a bit later, calm down a bit and such?” John went on to suggest, guessing that Dave started to need a pause after such an emotional outburst. It was also better if John and Paul were allowed to collect themselves, so that they could handle the situation later this evening. John held Paul’s gaze and the man nodded, a permanent-looking crease between his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” he said out loud, squeezing Dave’s hand. “If you want, we can stay here with you, or—”

“I’ll just go into me room,” Dave muttered, standing up rather abruptly. He hovered above them for a moment, looking from John to Paul, and when his lower lip seemed to start wobbling again he turned and walked out of the living room, soon hopping up the stairs with Martha’s soft padding right behind him.

The two men on the couch waited until they heard a door close upstairs, and then turned to look at each other with equally horrified expressions.

“I’m going to cripple them,” John said, his voice hot with seething, uncontained rage. “I’m going to—”

“Get in the queue,” Paul said, his voice blank with shock, a perfect contrast for John’s. “I can’t believe it!”

“I can,” John muttered darkly, shaking his head in an attempt to clear his head from the red haze. “What else can 15-year olds do than spend their time being ignorant?”

Paul sighed, very aware that not all 15-year olds thought such things, and that John knew it as well.

“Dave shouldn’t need to defend us,” he said quietly, and John could see his hands shaking. He wasn’t far from that either, and with a firm touch he reached out and entwined his fingers with Paul’s, needing the contact just as much as the other man.

He let out a deep exhale and fell back against the couch, closing his eyes. Paul shifted so that the space between them disappeared, and John let his head fall against the man’s shoulder, Paul’s cheek coming to rest on top of his head.

“Should we ask Mary to come over tomorrow, to watch after Vera and Chuck and the lot?” John asked after a long silence, closing his eyes. He heard Paul hum, uncertainty in his voice.

“What about Alfred? Mum and Dad are busy packing for France, I heard… and it’s been a while since he came over.”

John thought for the pros and cons for a while, and then nodded. Pros: They wouldn’t have to bother Paul’s parents, and the kids liked Alfred. Cons: The kids would be watching trash programs from the TV for the whole evening, and the cats wouldn’t probably get their food on time, and Martha would be forgotten on the yard. But not bothering Mary and Jim was well worth it.

“I’ll call him in a minute,” John said, and felt Paul nod in turn against his head. They stayed again in silence for a moment, contemplating what had happened, and then John grimaced, tightening his hold of Paul’s hand.

“I’m a bit scared of meeting that brat’s parents tomorrow,” he said. He heard Paul make a slightly confused hum, and sighed faintly.

“He must’ve learnt his way of thinking from _someone.”_

“Ah.”

Silence fell again and John felt an urge to just run to Dave and shake him by the shoulders, and then shake him by the hand for a good punch. He also wanted to call the other boy’s parents and tell them to fuck off in advance, and while he might’ve as well done that in his youth, he was now too old and tired to even lift himself up from the couch.

_‘Old age doesn’t come alone,’_ he thought with a hazy mind, _‘but with blindness and fucking useless legs.’_

“I’m sorry for being angry before,” Paul mumbled after a while. “It was just the tension and the shock.”

“Mmh,” John hummed, knowing that Paul talked about him not answering the phone. “I’m sorry, too. I just forgot to switch it on.”

“How did the meeting go?”

“Crap,” John huffed, and Paul chuckled, the sound warming John up from the stomach. “The big bosses were _still_ incapable of deciding between designs, and the slogan has changed _again,_ so for now the situation is ‘bang out a couple more o’ ‘em drawings, will ye, John, for next week??’, like it’s _easy?!”_

Paul laughed out loud at that, his body shaking next to John.

“So, why are you sitting here and not in the office, then?” he asked with a teasing note in his voice. John, so relieved to hear that tone, felt his face morph into a grin.

“Why are _you_ not fixing the essays for your snotty teenagers.”

“Ugh,” Paul groaned. “My nice afternoon is ruined.”

“For your information,” John smiled at the man next to him huffing and moaning, “I was gonna start on the sketches after I had enjoyed my _tea.”_

“Which reminds me,” Paul then said with an exhale — man, they were really doing some extreme sighing today — and started moving to get up. “I never finished your tea, and I’m going to do it right now, and eat a toast, not think about this _at all,_ and then I’m going to check on Dave’s knuckles, and probably chide a bit into a sulky silence now that he’s had time to build up his iron curtain, and consequently get super irritated again and shout at you for not doing the dishes. And in the evening I want to cuddle in bed. If you’ve done the dishes.”

“Sounds good,” John followed his example, pushing himself up from the couch with a groan. “I’ll call Dad, then, for starters.”

“I hope he’s sober enough to talk with you,” Paul muttered as he made his way out of the living room, shoulders heavy. John raised an eyebrow at his back — it wasn’t like Paul to make remarks on his father’s slight habit of drinking every now and then. Usually that wasn’t a problem of any kind — Alfred didn’t even look at a glass when there were children present, or when he knew that someone was coming over, and even when he _was_ drunk it wasn’t the kind of verbal lashing John might have received… _before._ He knew Al’s drinking irritated Paul, _especially_ since Paul was protective over John, and some twenty years ago there had been plenty of drunken calls that had left John feeling numb and worthless and Paul fuming and ready for war; never mind that Alfred had stopped the verbal abuse after the grandchildren came into the picture.

(John suspected that it might have been some sort of a deal between Alfred and Paul, made in secret years ago; Alfred would stop his drunk, abusive calls, and in turn he could see his grandkids — John was sure that _something_ like that existed, since the calls had just stopped dead the moment Dave came into the family, and he didn’t doubt Paul wouldn’t have the guts to place such an ultimatum at John’s father.)

“I’m sure,” he called after Paul’s retreating back, wondering again where his phone was. “It’s only Tuesday, after all.”

Paul didn’t answer, and John shook his head with a sigh before setting onto a quest to find his darn mobile phone.

***~**~***

“Dad’s all available,” John said as he passed in the kitchen half an hour later just as Paul was finished with his toast and tea, and was washing the mug.

“Okay, good,” he nodded, pursing his lips in thought. “Did you tell him the reason?”

“Just that we’re both needed at some school thingie,” John waved his hand nonchalantly, throwing himself into one of the kitchen chairs. It creaked under him and both men froze for a moment, anticipating that terrifying crack that would accompany the chair breaking in two under John, but it never came.

_‘Mercy for another day,’_ Paul thought rather humorously, and walked over to the table to give John the man’s mug back.

“There,” he grinned. “It was good tea.”

“Wasn’t it, though?” John said in a sad voice and looked at his empty mug with a miserable expression. Paul chuckled and then turned to take a small plastic bag of frozen blueberries he had taken out of the freezer some twenty minutes ago.

“I’ll patch up the Hulk,” he said, squaring his shoulders, feeling like he was indeed walking into a tight, closed space with the actual Hulk. John looked at him with a slightly pained expression while reaching for a flowery teapot. Paul glanced at him and pointed a finger at him. “You — stay out of it. Get to work.”

“This is why the kids like me more,” John muttered as he poured himself tea in a new attempt of enjoying his afternoon. “I’m the one who soothes the wounds once they’ve been traumatised by your disciplinary educational discussion.”

Paul gave him The Eyebrow, and didn’t comment any further on that. Instead he headed straight upstairs after stopping the cats and Martha from entering the kitchen, weighing the blueberry bag in his hand as he climbed the stairs. Maybe he could use it as a deadly weapon in case John got any more a smartarse than that.

He knocked on Dave’s door and waited until he heard a gruff hum that could be identified as permission to come in.

“So,” he said as he entered the room, repeatedly throwing the blueberries in the air and catching them. Dave was lying on his bed with his mobile phone in hand, not looking up at him; he had returned deep into his usual shell. “I hope you’re ready for some serious lecturing.”

Dave grumbled, but put down the phone and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Paul sat next to him and reached for a dirty Batman t-shirt, wrapping it around the blueberries.

“Here, put this against your hand,” he said, offering the package to Dave, who took it without complaint. “Are your knuckles just sore, or is there pain?”

“Just a bit sore,” Dave muttered, his fist disappearing under the blueberries.

“That’s good, then nothing’s broken, hopefully.” Paul said, not able to help a small surge of relief in his stomach. Who knew what could’ve happened — Dave had no knowledge about how to hold his fist properly when laying a punch, and could have consequently even broken his knuckles or fingers. Not that Paul thought the punch would’ve been that powerful anyway, but… truthfully you never knew with children.

“Can you break your hand from hitting someone?” Dave was clearly surprised, looking down at his hand.

“Yeah, if you don’t put it into a fist correctly,” Paul said, squeezing his left hand into a fist to demonstrate. Dave’s expression became suspicious.

“How can you fail putting your hand into a fist??”

Paul almost chuckled at that, but instead launched into an explanation that he knew would turn teacher-like in a matter of seconds… and Dave would hate it, but Paul just couldn’t help his habits.

“See, if your thumb is against your palm, like this—” he pushed his thumb under his fore- and middle fingers, “—you’ll break it for sure when punching something. When it’s on top of your fingers there’s no danger to that. If you don’t hit correctly, you risk breaking your knuckles or fingers — you should use your knuckles instead of hitting with the flats of your fingers, aim to punch with your two first knuckles, ‘cos if you hit with your ring and pinky knuckles you’ll break ‘em... It’s much stronger like that as well — you have to tilt your wrist a bit down, but not too much, obviously, since that’ll risk straining it…”

Dave seemed to listen with avid attention, pursing his lips together as he thought about the way he had thrown the punch. Paul trailed off when he realised that he really shouldn’t be teaching his son how to hit people, even though… even though he should try to prepare the kids for _everything,_ right? It didn’t help the situation if he just shouted at Dave and didn’t _explain_ some things that might actually be useful someday, no matter how involuntary, because some things in life came even if you didn’t look for them. Knowing how to throw a proper punch had served Paul better than not knowing how to do it.

“You ever had to hit someone?” Dave asked after a small silence where his eyes stayed on Paul’s fist; Paul could tell he was mirroring it with his hand under the blueberries and the Batman t-shirt.

Paul was quiet for a moment, and then nodded, his stomach churning at the mere memories.

“Why?” Dave looked up at him, their eyes meeting for a second before the lad’s gaze dropped back to Paul’s hand.

Paul hesitated, and then sighed, releasing his fist to run a hand through his hair. He would’ve felt much more comfortable not talking about this, but he understood that Dave wanted to hear, and… thinking about how _he_ felt about those few times of unwillingly hitting someone could help him understand what his son was going through. It couldn’t have been easy for Dave either… the scene downstairs had been enough a proof of that.

“I’ve had to, a couple of times,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest in an unconscious attempt of shielding himself from unpleasant memories and feelings. “To protect myself, or Dad. He too, for the same reasons.”

“In what sort of situations?”

“Well, like coming back from a pub, and running into a couple of shitfaced _arses_ from Uni, who know that there’s something between me’n John.”

Dave let out a frustrated noise, and Paul felt his heart clench almost painfully; it was as if only now he became aware that Dave had thrown that punch out of loyalty and sense of protection towards his parents. Of course there were personal insults included, and even towards his biological mother, but… Paul could understand why the lad seemed to be in such a vulnerable state of mind; it couldn’t have been easy, realising you’ve turned to violence to protect your parents, and then have them be angry at you for it.

“Hitting is _always_ wrong,” Paul said in a quiet, but a firm voice. Dave seemed to get smaller at those words, and his lips pressed together tightly to prevent his mouth from wobbling.

“But sometimes it’s something you have to do,” Paul continued, and Dave’s shoulders hunched. He pulled his legs on the bed and pushed his back against the wall that was covered in posters of the Avengers. There was also once poster of Daft Punk, bought from a gig they’d gone to see two years ago in Portsmouth, one photo of Han Solo, and a family photo taken after the wedding, Vera still with cake around her mouth.

Paul stared at the photo, eyes sweeping over Dave’s grinning face. The boy seemed genuinely happy and proud, standing between his fathers, holding up the marriage certificate. It was no wonder Paul sometimes struggled with Dave’s teenage angst, since he still saw that kind, clever, and social boy instead of the grumpy cave troll they seemed to be living with. He just… he saw such _potential_ in Dave… he just hoped that it would come to shine one day, that one day Dave would come downstairs and give that wide, happy grin, and maybe give Paul a hug, even. and Paul would know that it was finally over… Until Vera’s puberty started.

He tore his eyes away from the photo before he started getting too emotional, and looked at Dave instead, knowing that he had to drive the point home so that it stayed… no matter how hard Dave’s instincts told him to disregard anything his parents said at the moment.

“In this case, though, you shouldn’t have done it. I understand _why_ it happened, but you should have reported their words to a teacher. Self-defence is important, but needless violence is _wrong.”_

“I know,” Dave muttered, back to being his sulky self. “I’m not gonna do it again, Pop.”

“This morning, you would’ve said that you’re never going to hit anyone ever.”

Dave went silent, a frown marring his forehead. Paul sighed, reaching out for the boy’s hand.

“C’mon, give me your hand. I’ll check it before going down to shout at Dad for not doing the dishes.”

Dave didn’t comment on that, knowing better than to question Paul and John’s peculiar way of communicating with each other, where even the arguments were usually done with a tongue in cheek. He gave Paul his hand and Paul took away the blueberry bag; it was now well on its way of melting. That was good too, since John had been planning on baking a blueberry pie anyway in the near future.

“What you should do is figure out a bunch of good comebacks,” Paul said as he checked Dave’s knuckles, pressing and probing until he was satisfied enough, Dave not letting out a sound at his examination. “Verbal punches are often much more effective than actual ones. You could ask Dad about that.”

“I thought his tongue only gets him in trouble,” Dave said absentmindedly, staring at his 10-year old spaceship rug. Paul lowered his hand on the bed and patted at it gently, deciding that all was well and that all Dave needed was probably tea and a hot shower. And some sort of a punishment, too, even though Paul hated to think about it.

“It’s also got him out of plenty,” he said. “You’ve got the same wit as him, but you’re a bit more rational when it comes to using it. John doesn’t even try to hold it back, which inarguably makes him somewhat a trouble every now and then.”

“Is wit something that’s inherited genetically?” Dave said after a moment, something in his voice that oddly resembled fear. Paul frowned, pausing in his movement of standing up.

“Well, if it’s inherited, then definitely not through genes, I’d say,” he said slowly, thinking of his answer carefully; it seemed to have big importance to Dave. “You’re definitely your dad’s son, Dave.”

“Hmm,” Dave lifted his knees up to his chest. “Yeah. Sorry for that punch, Pop. Really.”

“I know you are,” Paul said, his tone soft. Some sort of a peace entered his chest and he reached out a hand to ruffle Dave’s hair, despite the protests that his action caused. With a small chuckle he got up from the bed, taking both the blueberries and the t-shirt into his arms.

“Tomorrow, at school —” he started and saw Dave’s face morph into a grimace. “Me and John can’t justify your actions, but we won’t stand by the other lad either. I, for one, have some certain, effective words selected for him and his parents, and I’m sure Dad’s even worse.”

He paused, looking at Dave who was getting smaller again, and sighed. He really couldn’t stay mad at the lad for too long, since his heart went out to him, and honestly? Having John as your life’s partner had made him almost immune to long-lasting anger, because that man was _unbelievable_ sometimes.

“Just… tell what you told us today, and it’ll be fine. And you’re going to help us clean the whole house before we leave at the cottage.”

Dave grumbled something, but didn’t say anything, which to Paul signified agreement to his words.

“Dinner’s in two hours,” he said and headed for the door. He was almost out, when one last thought surged from somewhere in his brain, making him stop.

“By the way,” he said, turning to look at Dave again, who met his gaze with a slightly raised eyebrow. “Who’s Sly Cooper?”

“God, Pop, you know _nothing,_ do you?”

***~**~***

“John?”

“…”

_“John??”_

“…I was almost sleeping and you _knew_ it! What??”

“Who’s Sly Cooper?”

_“God,_ Paul, you know nothing, do you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are not aware of who Sly Cooper is, he's an iconic character in a Playstation 2 game that carries his name. Also happens to be my favourite game on PS2. What a _coincidence._


	5. Are We There Yet?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter warnings:** Um.... Welsh? Cows? The Traffic Song? Financial talk? Also mentions of homophobia and violence (and FEELS!!!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a chapter!!! It's over 10k long, and you wouldn't BELIEVE the amount of research behind this one. I have studied NORTH WELSH LANGUAGE for about 14 hours in TOTAL, but being NOT WELSH there might be mistakes!!! I have tried being as accurate with it as I can (north welsh being totally different from south welsh but all the translations are always in the south welsh....) but if ANYONE FROM north wales spots mistakes, then I APOLOGISE WITH MY HEART AND WILL MAKE IT BETTER.
> 
> **There's Welsh spoken in this chapter, so whenever you see such language, hover your mouse over it. _TRY IT NOW BY HOVERING ABOVE THIS TEXT._ ** There will be full notes on the way some VERY NICE PEOPLE speak at the end notes, as well as translations to those who are on mobile!
> 
> This chapter has had me study Welsh agriculture and language for DAYS so i hOPE YOU APPRECIATE THE EFFORT. ENJOY. also thanks to puck who HASN'T ReAD THIS YET but told me it's fine. and for [Drearymondays](https://drearymondays.tumblr.com/) who is my help in All Things British Culture Things.

“John!! John?!”

_“What??”_

“Can you take the water canisters??”

_“Where are they???”_

“I thought you’d know!!”

_“I don’t!!!”_

Paul turned to look at the mess at his feet, feeling desperate. The cats were meowing in their carrier bags, even though to Paul it sounded a bit more like screaming. There were sports bags scattered everywhere in the hall, accompanied by several miscellaneous back bags. Children were running up and down the stairs, bringing more stuff they just _had_ to take with them, and John was in the storage room, doing God knew what. Not to mention Martha, who was running barking _behind_ the kids, thinking it was some sort of a game. It was a complete and utter _chaos._

“Dave??” he called in the direction of the stairs where Dave had just disappeared, having brought down his… Nintendo? DS? Something like that — and had headed back upstairs to stay quiet in his room until the family was ready to leave. Paul was _not_ going to let that happen.

Dave had behaved admirably during these past weeks, though. Ever since the incident at school two weeks ago he had been like an angel, much more social too, and listened to whatever John and Paul had to say, and Paul wondered whether something had changed in the boy’s head — whether the hard times were already past them, or was this just a good period. It could be that two weeks at the cottage would in turn make the lad sulk _forever._

“Are the water canisters in the loo?!” he yelled upstairs, and could soon hear Dave confirming it. Wow. That had been _fast,_ and Paul hadn’t even had to ask twice!

“Can you fill them?!”

Dave let out another sound that Paul took as an agreement, and that gave Paul the freedom to go and check the fridge. Everything that was going bad within two weeks was coming with them; they had two big coolers filled to the brink and Paul really wished they could get going soon, since the longer the food was outside the fridge, the sooner they would have to be at the cottage.

_“Found it!!”_ John shouted from the storage room, and soon appeared into the kitchen with an unopened pack of guitar strings in his hand. “Two broke last time, remember?”

“Distantly,” Paul grinned, basking in the amusing memory while John puttered about, apparently checking they had all the animal food they would need.

“Do we need to bring anything?” he asked while coming to Paul’s side, bending down to pick up one of the coolers. Paul took the second one, deciding that everything was in order in the fridge, and if they lost one cheese that might have resided behind some two-year old pickles never to be found, then it was just _too bad._

“I haven’t asked,” Paul shrugged and started heading towards the hallway. “And Bala’s just a few miles away... It’s not in the middle of _nowhere,_ love.”

“It isn’t… is it?” John asked with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, starting to follow him. Paul laughed and motioned John to give him the other cooler.

“Don’t say that to _them._ Hey, can you get the lot moving? Do we have everything?”

John eyed at the sport bags with a slightly pained expression.

“If not, then it’s just _too bad.”_

“My thoughts exactly,” Paul chuckled and began maneuvering himself through the hallway, stepping over bags and cats and children, until he finally reached the front door.

_“Okay, you lot! We’re leaving, so make sure you’re in the car before we do that!!”_ He could hear John yell inside as he pushed the coolers in the back of the car’s trunk. He went on to pick more bags, and John joined him in filling up the car, the children yelling from various parts of the house that they weren’t ready yet. Paul knew better; they were ready. No buts.

“Do you have all your paints?” Paul asked after they had hauled together one bag that must have contained 15 pound weights or something equally ridiculously heavy. Probably John’s painting material, and hopefully all of it. Paul didn’t know if the car could take any more.

John froze, his eyes staring blankly in front of him as he went through a mental catalogue of _everything I packed._ Paul waited patiently, and finally John nodded, if with some unsureness. And then he suddenly became Gollum.

“We thinks so, we do, Precious!” he called out in a perfected Gollum voice, turned, and snatched Chuck into his arms who had almost managed to sneak up to him from behind. The boy burst into peals of laughter, his bag almost hitting Paul square in the nose when John swirled him around in the air.

“Good, good. Get yourselves — all extra personalities included — in the car. And don’t forget to take a wee before we leave.” Paul laughed, heading back inside to collect whatever there was left.

Half an hour later they were all in the car, and Paul congratulated himself mentally for the record time; they had said that the departure would be at 10am, and now, at 12, they were almost on the road. Must really have been a new record — if only because Dave didn’t require the whole of his toys anymore.

John and Dave both had a cat carrier bag in their laps, and Paul could see Martha’s heaving head from the rearview window. Chuck was hugging Mr. Snoffle-toe (a dinosaur… sort of a thingie that he had had since birth (Paul had no clue where the name came from, but he suspected John had something to do with it)), and Vera had her headphones already on, to help with the travel-sickness. Once he had double-checked that everyone was on board, he started up the car.

“Wait!” Dave said, and Paul froze his leg over the gas pedal. “My charger—”

“We have plenty of them,” John said. “Besides, you don’t need your phone at the cottage.”

Dave looked aghast at the thought of spending even a minute apart from his beloved machine, and with a glance at John, Paul pressed his foot down softly.

It took two minutes of driving before there was another shout.

“I forgot Clara!”

_“Who’s Clara?”_ Paul moved his lips without the kids seeing it.

“The new Barbie. Honey—” John raised his voice so that it carried over to the backseat, “I’m sure you can be apart from her for two weeks.”

“But I was gonna take her with me, I didn’t tuck her away or anything, she’s gonna be all cold and alone and—”

“Ah, but remember? The toys come alive now that we’ve left. Clara’s gonna find her way safely to the other Barbies,” Paul said, adamant to _not_ turn back for a Barbie. He was finally on his way to the cottage, and it burnt inside him like a candle that would just grow and grow until he drove to the familiar driveway, and if the family wanted him to turn back it must be something _bigger_ they forgot. Like John.

Well, _that_ was probably never going to happen again. It was a fond memory for Paul and a terrible one for John, who had fortunately managed to reach him by calling Dave, who was the only kid at the time with a phone, and it was at that moment that Paul realised he’d forgotten something. All he’d been thinking during the 15 minutes they’d been on their way that it was strangely quiet in the car.

(He had never got an explanation why _Dave_ hadn’t said anything about _someone_ missing. The boy had probably been too immersed in his Snake II. And then again, Paul and John tended to play foul pranks on each other, and he could’ve thought Paul did it on purpose. Which _was_ slightly hilarious.)

“I wanted to show her the lake…” Vera said, sounding terribly sad. Paul and John shared a (suffering) glance, and John shook his head with minimal movement.

“You’ll get another chance, we’ll be going again in a few weeks or so,” Paul said. “There’s much to do and summer is the best time for that.”

“Can I cut the grass??” Chuck yelled a bit too loudly, which was followed immediately by, “are we there yet?”

“You can do it with Pop,” John said. “I think you’re old enough. And no, we’re not there yet. We just left.”

“I wanna do it alone! When are we there?”

“We’ll be there when the numbers here say one and four,” John pointed at the car radio that at the moment showed just the time. Chuck let out a small sound, proceeding to stare intently at the 12:07 just so that he wouldn’t miss it changing to 14:00, angling Mr. Snoffle-toe so that he could see the time as well.

“I hope Chuck didn’t forget anything,” Paul said quietly to John, who started giggling — and then froze.

“The strings! The— I left them on the kitchen table!”

“Oh for _God’s_ sake, John,” Paul sighed, contemplating whether to stand listening to an out-of-tune guitar that was missing two of its strings for two weeks, or turn back and lose another ten to fifteen minutes as everyone would run around, fetching the things they’d forgotten.

“Let’s not turn back,” John sighed. “I’ll just get creative.”

“You’re always creative,” Paul said with a smile, relieved, and turned to the national road.

Once they’d get far enough there was _no_ _turning_ _back,_ and that was _exactly_ what Paul wanted.

***~**~***

“Why not listen to the Ramones?” Paul suggested once the question of today’s travel music popped up. John grimaced at him, shaking his head.

“It’s Spice Girls or nothing, pal.”

“I want Daft Punk,” Dave tried to say, but Vera stopped him by shouting “Ariana Grande” right next to him. Martha let out a bark and Thisbe meowed, and then Chuck yelled over all the noise.

“THE TRAFFIC SONG!!”

“Oh God, _the Traffic Song,”_ John said with a slightly terrified voice, but started looking for the CD anyway.

“Look at it this way, everyone,” Paul said to the collective sound of groans when John pushed the collection CD of children’s songs inside the player and chose the unholy, cursed _Traffic Song,_ “Chuck learns to first look over to the right, and then to the left, and then to the right again, and he’ll never get run over with that much cautiousness—”

_“REMEMBER ALWAYS_  
_THAT IN THE TRAFFIC_ _  
_ _MANY DANGERS LAY AHE-AD,”_ Chuck bellowed with the CD, and Paul could see John wince. Vera and Dave had dug up their own headphones again, although Vera didn’t seem to be suffering in the same way Dave was; after all, a few years back she had been singing this song as well with the same passion.

_“THAT IS WHY YOU_   
_MUST BE VIGILANT_   
_THAT BRINGS GREATEST SA-FE-TYYYY!!”_

“You know,” John started in a conversational tone, so that only Paul could hear him, “with this song being a favourite of first Dave’s, then Vera’s, and now Chuck’s, I’ve started considering of putting a bullet through my brain.”

“We’re only going to listen to it maybe three or four times today,” Paul said, although he, too, was beginning to feel like driving the car into a tree. “It’s not like he’s gonna sing it straight for _two hours,_ like _others.”_

John threw a sly glance at Dave, who looked back with an eyebrow raised indifferently, holding his headphones against his skull to block his former favourite song.

“Indeed,” he turned to face the road again. “And of course… _we_ learn that you must always look to the right before crossing a street.”

Paul chuckled and rolled his eyes, wondering whether it would be acceptable to just cut off his ears.

***~**~***

“Are we there yet?” Chuck asked for what was possibly the tenth time. John rolled his eyes, seeing Paul suppress a sigh almost violently, regarding by the twitching that went on.

“No, honey, we only just passed Pontblyddyn,” he called loudly. “Remember the numbers? They say one and three, not one and four.”

“When will it say one and foouur,” Chuck whined. Paul’s sigh struggle intensified, and John had to admit that he wasn’t far from it either.

“Very soon,” he promised. “Why don’t you try to catch some sleep, little man?”

“I wanna sing the Traffic Song!”

“Oh please, I swear to God, _no,”_ Paul muttered under his breath and John stifled a chuckle while his stomach turned upside down at the mention of one more play of the _Traffic Song._

“No, not now,” John called back, turning to look at Chuck. “Dad needs to concentrate on driving. Try to sleep, and when you awake we’ll be there.  Besides... Mr. Snoffle-toe is tired too, I just heard him yawn.”

“Mr. Snoffle-toe is, he’s excited to go to the cottage, so he woke up very early, so he’s tired,” Chuck explained, and accompanied his words with a huge yawn. Paul smiled fondly and mouthed _‘good idea’_ to John. John grinned, knowing that he was full of good ideas when it came to getting the children to sleep. He could probably argue his way into getting _Dave_ fall into a coma — and then of course he could also wake him up from it.

“Maybe, if you two sleep a bit, you won’t be tired when we arrive, and then you and Mr. Snoffle-toe can run around all you want,” Paul joined the discussion, glancing at the rearview window. “Martha’s sleeping too.”

Chuck mumbled something in response, but he was well on his way into the dreamland. John smiled softly at him before settling back into his seat. When Chuck got the idea of sleeping into his head it was only a matter of seconds that he went unconscious to the world, something which made John _very_ envious. Dave had been the same, but then one day he had abruptly stopped sleeping in the car and hadn’t done it ever since. Vera on the other hand still slept sometimes, but rarely on shorter than three hour-journeys.

If John and Paul were travelling without the kids, then John would’ve tried to catch a wink as well, because he could _always_ do with some sleep, but now it was his duty to keep an eye on whatever demands drifted from the backseat, while Paul kept them safely on the road. Paul would never, _ever_ sleep in a car — not at this age, since he had got so used to sometimes being the only person who had to stay awake. On the other hand, in a train the man went out like a light.

“Dad, I’m feeling icky,” Vera said faintly after a while. John turned again to look at the kids, his eyes landing on Vera, who was sitting in the middle. She looked a bit under the weather, and John raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve been on your phone again, haven’t you?”

“I just answered a couple of messages,” Vera said defensively. Dave huffed next to her.

“If you get sick in a car, why would you do that??”

“‘Cos I wanted to answer the message!”

“But you know you can’t do that, ‘cos you get sick.”

“You don’t know how it is!”

“I mean, just don’t _look_ at your phone.”

“It’s easy for you to say! You and Chuck are fine!” Vera almost yelled, crossing her arms over her chest. Dave lifted an unimpressed eyebrow, and Chuck’s head dropped down to his chest, small, adorable sighs escaping from his mouth with every exhale as he slept. That little man could sleep through an explosion — John was proud to call him his kin.

“Yeah, ‘cos we’re better.”

“Now _that’s_ bullsh—”

“Vera,” John interrupted firmly before it all would _totally_ escape, and Paul would have to step in, “do we need to stop?”

Vera tore her gaze away from Dave, turning to John. She stared at him for a moment, a contemplating look passing on her face, and then sat back in her seat.

“Nu-uh,” she shook her head. “It passed.”

John caught Dave winking at him subtly and offered a grin at both kids before facing the road again. He knew well what Dave had just done — distracted Vera from the thought that she was feeling sick, and consequently the feeling had passed before it escalated. No matter the grief the boy sometimes gave his parents, he was a great sibling, and John was proud of him.

“Dave needs a fucking medal,” he muttered, burying himself against his seat now that another episode of _“everyday driving situations with your family”_ had passed. Paul laughed softly, nodding in agreement as he switched to the right lane to pass a truck.

“Yeah. Although I think lending him my charger during these two weeks is enough.”

John chuckled, wondering whether it was okay for him to close his eyes just for a _bit._

No time like present to find out, right?

***~**~***

Their beloved cottage was situated a little less than 2 hours away from Liverpool in Wales, near the beautiful _Bala Lake_ that was, as John said, deep enough to lose your children in it, and clear enough for you to find them. Paul had inherited the cottage from his grandparents in his early twenties, and it had always been Paul and John’s shared project to repair and refurbish it, since Paul’s grandparents hadn’t really taken care of the single-floor stone cottage during their last ten years of owning it. As such it had been completely uninhabitable when Paul and John first got there.

Well. They had always loved a challenge.

The cottage had apparently been an old cowshed when Paul’s grandparents bought it in the 1800’s (not really, but that was how old they, and it _seemed_ to be). Now, after years and years of work, the cottage had a living room, a bathroom (since there were water pipes _out..._ not in), a teeny weeny kitchen, two bedrooms, and a small utility room that John used as a workroom.

The lot itself wasn’t _huge,_ but large enough for the family to enjoy their time there, and for Martha to roam free without getting bored too fast. Since the cottage had been built on higher ground, the lake could be seen glittering behind the fields and the trees that surrounded the cottage and its garden. In the far side of the lot was an old stone shed that was falling apart and needed to be taken down, but for now they used it for storing stuff. Handy. In the yard was also an old well that they used to get water for the dishes and washing, but drinking water they brought with themselves.

Their closest neighbours was a farm some 300 metres away, over a couple of fields that were in the possession of the farm. The farm was situated just before the small road that would lead to the cottage, and it was there that Paul steered the car, as was customary. The food in the coolers could wait a bit longer; for there were people they had to greet first, and Paul _knew_ he wouldn’t be forgiven if he just drove past. He had tried that once and would never do so again.

“Why!” There was a yell when they started erupting from the car, Paul stretching in a painful-looking way that resulted in his back popping from several places. “Isn’t it our favourite gays!!”

“Technically,” John laughed as a lanky figure trotted towards them in his Wellingtons, dirt-covered jeans and an equally dirty t-shirt on, “since I’m bi and Paul’s something really vague, that term only applies to you!”

The man laughed and pulled him into a tight hug that was surprisingly strong for someone that boney.

“Stop bi erasure, right?” he grinned when he let John go, and then turned to yell towards the farm house. “Chriiis!! Put the kettle on!!!”

_“Is it the Sheltons??”_

“No! The McCartneys!!” The man glanced at John with a grin, stroking his beard-covered chin, one hand going to his hip. “And a Trouble!!”

Laughter echoed from an open window, and then sounds of plates clinking together ensued, accompanied by a kettle being put on.

“That’s not nice, George,” John said in a small whine. “I’ve been nothing but good for the past 20 years.”

“Right,” George said, raising his eyebrows. Then, blatantly not answering John’s weak and pathetic assertion he turned his gaze on the rest of the family. “How was the journey? Buttocks still attached?”

“I can hardly feel mine,” Paul answered with a grin as he lifted Chuck from the car, the boy rubbing his eye sleepily. Vera giggled and bounced forward to wrap her arms around George’s mid-section.

“Hi Uncle George! My plant is still alive,” she said proudly. George laughed and leaned down to hug her.

“That’s great! And you’ve been taking care of it all on yer own?”

“Yeah!” Vera nodded vigorously. “Dad isn’t even allowed to touch it, ‘cos he kills any plant he goes near to.”

“I’m _very_ aware of that,” George said dryly, shooting a glance at John, who was scowling at him, and at Paul, who was laughing quietly.

“Say, where’s that husband of yours?” John said then, deciding that enough was enough, and besides, Paul was the only person in the world who could tease John like that without consequences. And George knew it. John guessed the man just _wanted_ to feel his revenge.

“Um, somewhere,” George straightened his back and Vera ran off, yelling _“chickens!”._ Chuck woke up properly at that and started struggling in Paul’s arms, not getting very far with that since Paul dropped him almost immediately by habit. Mr. Snoffle-toe remained in Paul’s hands when Chuck sprinted after Vera, shouting that he too wanted to hug the chickens, and as Martha ran after them with a joyful bark, the upcoming horror movie for the chickens was complete. George didn’t look worried in the slightest. “Might be on the field. In the office? Drowning in the lake? Who knows — there’s only _‘work’_ written on his calendar spot today.”

“Busy days?” Paul moved finally in for a hug while John tagged back to the car, releasing the cats from their comfortable prisons, his cooing working as a mood setting to Paul and George squeezing the hell out each other.

“Not so much — not until harvest,” George said, pulling back and patting Paul on the top of his head with a delighted look. “You’re going grey, mate!”

“And you’re the only one who cares about my two white strands,” Paul rolled his eyes, John’s stifled chuckle reaching his ears. George himself had a luxurious amount of dark, thick hair that rested on his shoulders comfortably, while some of it had been pulled up into a man-bun to keep it out of his face — so of _course_ he had to tease Paul about the two naturally greyed strands of hair on his forehead, since he had nothing to fear himself... _yet._

“I have to keep your ego in check — Da- _vy!_ What’s up?? I hear you’ve been putting up a real teenage tantrum lately!” George moved towards Dave, who had got out of the car but had yet to look up from his phone. At hearing his name he lifted his face up, a wide, happy smile spreading on his lips.

“I have to keep the old people on their toes,” he answered and was pulled into a hug. Paul rolled his eyes and headed for the car to close the doors before they’d go in for a cup of tea that he had _totally_ deserved.

“That’s a good answer!” George hit Dave in the back a few times with a large grin. “Just as I did, and as a cherry on top I became a humanist — you should’ve seen me dad’s face.”

“It was indeed hilarious,” Paul laughed and left Mr. Snoffle-toe on Chuck’s seat before slamming the door shut. “Right, I need tea. Tea. _Tea.”_

“And you shall have some, my posh padawan,” George announced cheerfully and wrapped an arm around Dave’s shoulders, starting to lead him towards the house. “Now, tell me all about this punch, down to the details of how the bastard’s teeth clacked together as your fist beautifully connected with his miserable, fat cheek, as yer da described it to me—”

“George’s in a roll,” John said as he fell into step with Paul, Pyramus and Thisbe following them like two fat-filled furry balloons.

“You mean, more than usually? Surely not,” Paul chuckled, and John nodded along with a grin, happiness shining in his eyes. The worries and the stress that city life caused had now been put on hold for two whole weeks, and seeing the familiar farm house looming in front of them, hearing the chickens scream in the barn and the children yell with laughter, Martha barking with excitement... that was everything they both needed to feel all the pressure leave their shoulders.

George, with his husband Richard, were pretty much their oldest, and undeniably their best friends. Despite George being a year younger than Paul they had been best friends since primary school, having lived almost next to each other for years. George had followed Paul into uni, and had become a music teacher, despite the horror that his working class-father felt at that, who thought real work was done by hand, and assumed George would just plink some guitar strings and make 7-year olds sing out of tune for the rest of his life.

Well, fate, otherwise known as John and Paul, had interfered. After inheriting the cottage, Paul had taken both John and George with him for mental support when he went to look at his new “goodbye free time”-project for the first time. The young lads had politely introduced themselves to their neighbours, a nice couple that had a farm just near them... and they had a _very_ nice son as well, who would inherit the farm once his parents decided upon retirement, and was very conveniently the same age as John. The four of them got along swimmingly right from the first moment, and the very nice lad’s good-natured, calm farm-boy attitude completed the group in a strangely perfect way.

Then, just to prove that the whole family was actual angels, Mr. and Mrs. Starkey offered them a guest room for any length of time until they got the cottage into a habitable form, and after some hesitation John and Paul agreed to that.

So they started refurbishing the cottage, and it took them a total of two years of inhabiting the guest room before the cottage no longer threatened their lives with falling pieces of roof. During that time they got to know the very nice lad from the farm better, since he came to help with the cottage every time John and Paul were there.

And, well.

George started helping at the cottage _very_ often, as well.

And so, 20 years later, George no longer plinked guitar with 7-year olds, but was wrist-deep in dirt in his garden and helping his very nice husband run the farm. No one could say whether his father was happy with the development, since George had switched from being a humanist to being gay, but at least the parents got a charming guest room whenever they visited (and his father _had_ to admit that George’s husband was a _very_ nice lad, indeed).

They entered the old, traditional farm house from a side door without worrying for Vera and Chuck; they had Martha with them, and knew the whole area like their pockets, including every hidden corner inside the barn and the granary. Had _John_ been the one to disappear after the chickens Paul might have been worried, but since the man was safely walking next to him, there was no need for that.

They left their shoes in the small hallway that also contained a spiral staircase, and headed straight into the kitchen. They could have gone into the sitting room, that was situated to the left from the hallway, but since they were technically family it didn’t really matter.

They could hear clanging in the kitchen and George, who had changed his Wellingtons into soft slippers pulled Dave through the kitchen door with a large grin.

“Now look who we have ‘ere!” he exclaimed. “Yer brother — _well,_ kind of — from another father — fa _thers!”_

John and Paul got inside just in time to see a tall, black-haired boy with light brown skin turn from where he had been filling the dish machine, his face lighting up with a wide, bright smile.

“Dave!” he said, his voice smooth and unusually deep for someone of his age. “You came too!”

The two boys gave each other a friendly fist bump, and then a quick, super manly hug where they banged each other’s backs in a way that made Paul and John wince slightly.

Chris was 17, soon to be 18 years old, and George and Ringo — as they had started calling the man after he beat them brutally at ring toss — had adopted him at the same time Paul and John got Vera (for love, said George and Ringo. For child labour, said John and Paul). Chris had been six years old back then, making him the oldest of the children, but that had never stopped him from integrating into the family. Always having been like a brother to the McCartney-Lennon kids, Chris was especially important to Dave. They shared the same experience of having different ethnicities than their parents, and the two boys had quickly bonded over that fact back in 2006. For Dave it had been a delight to have someone like him; in turn Dave had helped Chris’ integration into his family by proving that someone with a differing looks could belong.

Despite not looking like them, personality-wise Chris was a lot like George and Ringo. He had the calm and gentle quality to him that was a straight copy from Ringo’s peaceful outlook on life, but also George’s dry wit and appetite for small teasing. Chris was to inherit the farm after George and Ringo decided they’d had enough, and he was well prepared for that despite his young age — he had been helping at the farm ever since he first got into the family, and had grown into a strong young man with an admirable skill with both chickens and tractors.

The boys soon evolved into chatterboxes about some new game that their parents had no clue about, and George brushed past them to pour the hot water into the pot.

“So, what’s changed in six weeks, give or take?” he asked once the tea was served and the five of them had sat down around a huge mahogany table. John snatched himself a few butter biscuits and Paul let out a content sigh, wrapping his fingers happily around his tea mug.

“Well, it’s the holidays!” John said, mouth full of biscuits. George lifted a very unimpressed eyebrow, leaning back in his chair and crossing his fingers over his stomach.

“What’s a holiday,” he said in the blankest voice known to a human being. John grinned, face the epitome of false innocence.

“It’s a blessed time where you got no responsibilities, no work, nothing to do, and you just lay about for weeks and weeks until you can’t move—”

“I don’t see how that differs from what you usually do,” Paul commented, and George, as well as Chris and Dave snorted with laughter almost identically.

“Hey,” John turned to Paul with his mouth hanging open. “You’re supposed to be my loving husband. Don’t blow our cover.”

“Of what,” Paul raised an eyebrow, taking a quick sip of his tea. It was _heavenly,_ but he also burnt his tongue. Hmm. If he had to describe life with John, it would’ve been a bit like that. John was a bit like too hot tea that tasted very good.

Smiling at the thought of John being too hot (not possible, and Paul didn’t complain) and tasting very good (...true as well, in _many_ aspects), Paul reached for a biscuit and continued staring at John challengingly.

“You know the whole thing of being secret agents and faking this whole thing?” John said like it was the most natural thing to say in the world, making it sound like any other obvious stuff that might have come up in the discussion.

“Oh, right,” Paul said, and paused. “Sorry, my dear darling husband. I’m sure no one will ever know our secret.”

“Speaking of secrets, I know a couple of ‘em, and I’m in the mood for sharing them,” George interjected lazily, and two pairs of eyes snapped to look at him with a warning glare. “However, since my son is present, I’m not gonna spill ‘em.”

“Chris,” Dave said with a grin. “Would you like a loo break?”

Chris laughed, and to Paul and John’s shared horror, nodded and stood up with a wink at them. George was clearly in a cheerful mood, and whenever he was _that_ cheery, John and Paul were _always_ in trouble. It wasn’t that George would’ve done it out of actual want to hurt them, and if there were no children present then John and Paul would be equally ruthless — but there were things they had _not_ told their children, and _especially_ Dave, since during his first two years in the family Paul and John were not as apt at hiding their stuff, or just being discreet parents in general, and as such some _things had happened, and—_

“I love my son. I’ve raised him well,” George said happily after Chris had left the room with soft laughter. Paul and John started shaking their heads, and John lifted a finger.

“Now,” he started, “I know we _can’t_ stop you from talking, but I swear to God, if you let _one_ word out of your mouth, I will make _sure_ that it’ll be your _last—”_

“You looked for Christmas presents when you were four and found your dads’ sex toy collection instead,” George said all in one breath, grinning at Dave, and the table exploded.

“Noooo!” Dave slammed his palms against the table at the same time Paul and John erupted in terrified shouts of George’s name. “Really?? Oh my _God!!”_ He burst into laughter, falling back in his chair as chortles escaped his mouth freely.

“WHY WOULD YOU _DO_ THAT?!!” John yelled at the same time Paul went for “WE _T_ _RUSTED_ YOU!!!”

“Needless to say they’ve had the world’s most boring sex ever since,” George took a sip from his mug, and then broke into giggles when Paul and John continued to yell at him, and Dave’s laughter turned into howls.

“You’re the worst! YOU’RE THE WORST FRIEND EVER!!” Paul yelled just as the door opened and the laughter of children entered the kitchen, accompanied by someone talking to them in a warm baritone voice with a strong North Wales accent.

A blue-eyed, tanned man with a remarkably big nose, disheveled clothes, and hay in his dark hair stepped into the kitchen, stopping short at the doorway as he eyed at the scene in front of him with a confused smile. Chuck and Vera pushed past him, Martha just behind them, and after her came Pyramus and Thisbe, and the kitchen seemed to descend into a complete chaos when another door opened and Chris came in, with him the house’s two dogs, Bob and Dylan.

Vera and Chuck ran to hug Chris quickly before dashing out of the kitchen again with all the dogs in tow now, talking about the “death attic” (they had once found a dead mouse from there and were convinced the attic was a somewhat dangerous monster, and were adamant to prove it). Paul and John, having jumped on their feet, still looked outraged as they stared George down, who sipped his tea without a worry in the world.

_“... Helo,”_ Richard Starkey, Ringo to his friends, said as a greeting after silence fell like a guillotine. “I was overrun by two little monsters who thought it’d be a good idea to tackle me into a hay pile, yeah,” he scratched at the top of his head, one hay stray falling on the floor.

Paul and John didn’t say anything, but continued to stare at George with deep betrayal in their expressions. Chris raised his eyebrows with an amused smile, returning to his seat.

“I take it was a big secret,” he said, but Dave was unable to answer, having succumbed against the table in helpless fits of laughter.

“Last time I’ve seen the laa laugh like that was when he pushed Chris into a hay pile,” Ringo observed, and turned to look at George. “Which one was it?”

“The one with the dildo,” George said, and John and Paul yelled in horror as Dave started coughing, the laughter becoming too much for his lungs to handle.

Ringo laughed and nodded, finally stepping in properly, making his way towards his seat.

“Good one, it is.”

“My favourite,” Chris echoed, and John more or less wailed upon hearing that; there was no way they could ever look at the two boys in the eyes again.

“Jesus,” Paul groaned. “Don’t think we’ll forget this.”

“I’m counting on your revenge,” George laughed heartily. The others were still chuckling a bit, but Paul’s expression became determined and he turned to Ringo, who had sat down in his chair between George and Paul.

“So!” Paul raised an eyebrow, adamant to change the subject. “Have _you_ got a holiday? George here tells us he don’t.”

“Oh, I do, yeah,” Ringo laughed, leaning forward to pat Paul on the arm, a way of welcoming him into the house without having to get up for a hug. “I’m having one right now. Then I’ll have one again working in the office, and one more in the evening — it depends on how you look at it!” he grinned. “Chris, can I get a panad, _os gweli di'n dda_ _?”_

_“ Ia, Tad,” _Chris got up and went to take an empty tea mug, leaning over the table to give it to Ringo. Dave reached for a biscuit, and John dashed in at the same time just to annoy him, pulling a stupid face at his son.

“It’s remarkable how fast John gets over the awkwardness,” George commented, and Paul couldn’t help but snort with laughter.

“Well, y’know,” he shrugged, “that’s the Casanova for you.”

Dave and Chris let out weird, strangled sounds at holding back their laughter, and George and Ringo chuckled heartily.

“Anyway,” John coughed through the biscuit he was munching, not giving a comment at the familiar, overused remark at his past, “busy days on the field?”

“Not so much,” Ringo shrugged. “More in the office. It’s been a pretty good year, the wheat harvest starts in two weeks… yeah.”

“We have to put Moomee up for sale, though,” George said, sadness echoing into his voice.

“What? No!” Paul said, completely astonished. There were similar exclamations all over the table, and then silence fell, three pairs of eyes staring at George and Ringo with shock. Chris lowered his gaze to his hands, starting to play with his fingers. There was tensity to his jaw that told of strong, suppressed emotions going through him.

George and Ringo owned plenty of animals, from their dogs and cats to sheep and chickens. They also had three cows, and Moomee was one them. The cows were more like pets and family members than anything else, and were loved by all, especially the children. They were already older than cows would live in dairy production, Moomee nearing 10 years as the oldest, and as such John and Paul couldn’t really believe their ears — they had thought that George and Ringo could _never_ part from their beloved animals.

“We really don’t have a choice,” George sighed. Dave was looking heartbroken at the end of the table; he would not admit it out loud to his parents at the moment, at the height of his sulky teenager years, but he had always loved the cows over anything else at the farm, and would probably do a trip down to their field with Chris when no one was looking. He had been most ecstatic when Moomee had first arrived some ten years ago as the cutest calf, and had pampered her for all her life. Moomee, too, was very affectionate with him — as were all the cows.

“Yeah, it’s a damn, and we _could_ afford keeping her, but...” Ringo pursed his lips in displeasure, “the market is tough at the moment, it is.”

“No one’s doing anythin’ to help the farmers,” George said. “There’s nothing to worry about for us _yet,_ but we don’t _want_ to end up in a situation where we have to minimize our budget just to our basic needs.”

“It’s better being cautious,” Paul nodded in understanding, John exhaling deeply next to him, but not saying anything.

“It’s a drag, though,” George said. “She’s our baby, but... we don’t know what to do, really, other than this. We can’t cut from our production, and the cows are no profit to us, other than being part of the family. Arwen and Ebrill are both pregnant, so we’ll have to wait a bit before seeing what to do with them, and whether the situation changes by then.”

“What about looking for new partners, or changing to dairy products? You have the space,” John said, although already knowing what the answer was. George and Ringo would not go and sell one of their dearest animals if it was not the last solution.

As expected, Ringo shook his head.

“Our partners are fine. Looking for new ones would mean going outside North Wales, and I want to keep local. And changing to cattle would mean building the whole system, and that would take years, and money, and I prefer my cows living longer than just five years.”

“We really are fine as it is,” George said. “I’m planning on putting up a few apple trees, I’ve been talking with a few shops in Bala about possible cooperation, ‘cos everyone wants to keep the business local. Customers like it more, too, when they know it’s from the Starkey farm. But we’ve been following the sales for years, and if they continue to go down we’re gonna have to cut from somewhere. It’s not just us, it’s everyone, and we’re well-off compared to many others.”

The adults around the table nodded with somber expressions. Dave took one more biscuit and then stood up, apparently having grown bored of such grown-up subjects.

“I’m gonna see the barn,” he said, looking at Chris. “You comin’ too?”

“In a minute,” Chris said. “It’s an interesting discussion, it is!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Dave rolled his eyes, but only looked slightly amused. He waved his hand at George and Ringo, and even offered a small smile at John and Paul before exiting the room.

“What a bunch of sunshine,” John sighed after they heard the front door slam. “He’s gonna sit in a hay pile and text his friends how countryside _sucks.”_

“I’m telling him you said that,” Chris said with a warm smile. John stuck his tongue out at him, and Paul turned back to the actual adults at the table.

“Well, any good news we should be aware of, then?”

“Hey, there’s one!” Chris piped up, George and Ringo looking at him with raised eyebrows before starting to smile slowly, understanding dawning on them. Then both started suddenly snickering like a bunch of school boys, shooting nervous glances at John, who just stared at them with confusion.

“Well, you know Mitten...”

“Yes?” John said slowly, raising his eyebrows. Paul’s eyes started widening, his mouth opening slightly as some sort of a memory rose to the surface of his mind — an off-handed mention on the phone couple of months before...

“She’s got kittens!!” Chris exclaimed, and it was only a matter of seconds before John was on his feet, a dangerous expression on his face.

“Where.” He said, voice more or less thunderous. George and Ringo had broken into hysterics.

“In the attic,” Chris grinned. “Vera and Chuck are probably cuddling them as we speak—”

John dashed out of the room before the sentence was over, and laughter followed him, Paul joining the rest.

“I can’t believe we forgot to tell him,” George howled. “And I had just checked on them when you arrived—! Oh, Christ—”

“Was he even aware there would be kittens?” Ringo asked through his laughter, aiming a look at Paul, who broke into new, helpless giggles, shaking his head.

“I forgot— I forgot to tell,” his giggles turned into bright chortling. “Oh, God, you know we’ll never leave without one, now. He’s gonna smuggle all of them with him just out of spite.”

“They’re a bit small, but if you come in four weeks you’re free to take any of them, and as many as you want,” George grinned toothily. Paul laughed, shaking his head.

“We’ll probably go through a couple of arguments over that, but I’m fine with taking one, for now. Thisbe and Pyramus…” he paused, thinking about the two fat cats with fondness, now slight fear mixed into it. “They’re old. So… I think it’ll be easier for all of us if there’s already a new cat in the family when they have to move on,” he sighed and shook his head slightly, not wanting to dwell on the thought that occasionally grazed his mind. He knew John was thinking about it as well — and while Paul loved their cats, John completely _adored_ them. Paul still remembered how John had reacted when his first cat had died — a year before Pyramus and Thisbe came into the family — and it had been heartbreaking just to watch him burst into tears randomly, no matter the situation. A new, young cat to cuddle when sorrow got too hard would be a good thing, indeed.

“Enough of this serious discussion,” Ringo clicked his tongue and shook his head strongly. “What do you plan on doing at the cottage?”

“Oh, this and that, like usual,” Paul started slowly smiling. “I thought of finally fixing the roof, and um, one shelf in the garage came down last time so I gotta fix that. John has a few things he has to do, so it’s still work for him, only at the cottage,” he pursed his lips. It was one sad truth that now that John no longer took care of the children full-time and took more assignments, he rarely had _any_ free time. Everything he did happened between work sessions.

“I was really only joking about him jus’ lazing about all day,” he grimaced, George and Ringo nodding knowingly. “He does tremendous job on the house, the kids, the pets, _and_ his work. He arses his way through it all, but… he does it _well.”_

“So does our George,” Ringo grinned and leaned towards his husband to pat him on the thigh. George gave him a finger before laying his palm over Ringo’s hand, holding it in place.

“I just don’t _arse_ my way, unlike him,” George raised an eyebrow, and Ringo looked dangerously close to making a smart comment regarding George and arses. Paul stifled a chuckle, instead taking a sip of his tea. Chris stared at his parents for a second with his eyes narrowing before he stood up rather abruptly, his chair scraping the floor.

“Oookay,” he said, smiling widely. “I’ll be going then.”

_“ Laa da,” _Ringo winked at him, and Chris made a face.

_“ Iawn... Pryd ydyn ni’n bwyta?”_

_“ Ar ôl chwech,” _George waved his hand vaguely, and Chris rolled his eyes, nodding.

_“ Yn bon amser. _Okay, I’ll see you later, Uncle Paul,” he waved a hand, and with that disappeared from the kitchen with sudden hurry in his steps that amused Paul to no extent. It was always funny hearing George speak Welsh, since the lad had been the worst at languages at school, whereas Paul had some sort of a grasp of German and French. Welsh, though, was completely impossible — or so Paul had thought until George had just suddenly spoken it fluently.

They succumbed into a silence, enjoying each other’s presence. When Paul was finished with his cuppa, he started getting up as well, nodding towards the attic.

“I think we need to get going, the food needs to be put in the fridge and it’s not even on yet.”

“Ah, I put it on this morning,” Ringo piped up. “Figured since you’d come, yeah.”

“Really? Cheers, mate! That’s fab!” Paul exclaimed and bounced over to give him a proper hug they hadn’t exchanged yet. “Come over later, bring Dave with you if you will — or he,” he grinned at his good friends, who nodded in agreement.

“After tea,” George said, glancing at Ringo for approve, who nodded with a smile. “Dave can eat here.”

“We’ll drop by when I’ve looked through all the papers,” Ringo said and made a face at the thought. Paul, fully sympathising with him, shuddered at the concept of work, and left George and Ringo into the kitchen, heading upstairs to fetch a couple of children, husband included.

***~**~***

Dave had settled under the only tree on the field, where he had a great view at the Bala Lake. Moomee, Arwen, and Ebrill were all standing close by, not eating for the moment being, but just doing whatever cows did when they stood around and stared into space. Dave didn’t know much about cows, so he couldn’t really tell what they were doing. He was sure it was important for them, anyway.

He relished the silence around him, since there were no cars around, and only the sound was the wind moving between the trees, and the cows’ occasional huffs and snorts. It felt good after such a long time of just being in the city, and Dave was glad he had come, even though he wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone. He was supposed to be here unwillingly after all, and he planned on holding onto his pride. Dad and Pop wouldn’t get a _‘it’s nice to be here’_ out of him even if Pop used his best, pathetic, sad face.

Suddenly the cows let out moos in the direction of the farm, and Dave guessed that someone was coming. He wasn’t mistaken, since a few seconds later there were footsteps, and Chris calling his name.

“Hi,” Dave greeted when Chris sat down next to him, patting him on the shoulder as a friendly greeting. The cows started roaming closer, and each one came to jab Chris in the eye with their large muzzles, Arwen flicking her tongue out to lay a wet kiss on his cheek.

Dave, having received similar kind of a meeting upon his arrival on the field, laughed at the sight, remembering the rough, rubbery feel of the cows tongues. Chris grinned and patted the animals away gently, his eyes showing the love and appreciation he had for the animals. There was not an ounce of displeasure in his being for being practically covered in saliva, and Dave was slightly jealous of Chris managing to look that calm and composed all the time; he had always been like that, whereas Dave just couldn’t _be_ like that. He had tried, thinking it’d make Dad and Pop prouder of him and maybe less wary with him, but it hadn’t worked. He didn’t understand how Chris did it, and sometimes wondered whether Dad and Pop would’ve preferred Chris over him as a son, since all Dave seemed to cause was trouble.

“Your Da said you’d be texting all your friends how much you hate countryside,” Chris said with a crooked smile that clearly came from Uncle George. Dave huffed, well aware that whatever his dad said shouldn’t be taken to heart — and still he did, his already unstable mood getting worse.

“I don’t hate countryside,” he said in a slightly heated, defensive tone, surprising himself with it as well. It seemed that he wasn’t in control of himself at all, and it annoyed him further. It had been like that for ages, and he _knew_ his parents said it was the hormones and such, but... why did the feelings feel so _real_ then?

The worst thing about it was that Dad and Pop seemed to understand his feelings better than _he_ did, which in turn just made him more irritated with them. (The phrase _‘you don’t understand my feelings’_ didn’t really work on them, and Dave hated it.)

“I know,” Chris said softly, moving his gaze upon the cows. They stayed in silence for a while before Dave let out a sigh out of sadness, but which by default ended up being sulky. It was as if there was some sort of a filter in his emotions that would only let out such sounds, no matter what he felt at the moment.

“I can’t understand why they’re sellin’ Moomee. That’s jus’ cruel.”

“Mmh,” Chris let out an agreeing sound, his head falling against the tree’s trunk with a soft thud. “It’s dead tight, but they don’t see they have a choice, nye. Da and Tad have been talkin’ about it for a year, been properly moiderin’ my ears off. I hate it,” he pinched his nose with a displeased grunt. “But they had to make a decision, and there’s no other choice. They wouldn’t do it if there was, yeah.”

“But couldn’t they just… widen their production, like,” Dave argued, eyes glued on Moomee, who was standing peacefully without a clue of her pending fate.

“Na they couldn’t, it’s not easy like that. It’d be risky,” Chris frowned, crossing his muscular arms over his chest. Dave was slightly jealous at the sight, wondering whether he should start going to the gym. His friends would certainly be in awe if Dave looked like Chris, and… especially the birds, too… “Tad would have to get more land, and then he’d need workers, ‘cos we barely cope now with 37 acres, the three of us.”

“That sounds so much,” Dave said, looking over at the field. He had no clue of how big was one acre, but it sounded huge.

“The land in North Wales isn’t the best for growing crops, but some do it, like us. Our farm’s well established in the market,” Chris started digging away the dirt that had gone under his fingernails, “so we don’t have to worry for now. But like they said, the situation’s not the best, nye. So we gotta say goodbye to some of the family.”

Dave tried to imagine that they had to sell Martha, just _in case_ things went bad, and really couldn’t. He didn’t understand the adults and didn’t see why there wouldn’t be another way. There was _always_ another way, wasn’t there? Pop always said that too.

They were quiet for a while, and then Chris glanced at him with a raised eyebrow.

“I heard you’ve been punchin’ people?” he said, and his voice held a note of carefulness that Dave _hated._ He hated how everyone treated him like a bomb going off at any given moment, and now even Chris had started doing it! That, if something, hurt. Dave was doing his _best._

“It wasn’t— I didn’t _want_ to do it!” he said angrily, fists clenching when the memory surfaced, clear as a day. “They were talking shit — you would’ve done it as well if you’d heard ‘em. They were callin’ my parents _faggots_ and _shit eaters_ and saying that me mum was a _slut_ who had to hate me since she got rid of me, that I’m not even their actual _son_ and they can’t love me like _real parents_ do ‘cos they’re _queer,_ and that Dad and Pop just deserve to _die,_ and that they probably _will,_ since all gays have AIDS, and—”

Dave sucked in a sharp breath, tears springing into his eyes again. He squeezed his hands into tight fists, trying to hold back a sob that threatened to escape, but it all made him still so _angry._ He didn’t _understand_ why someone would hate his parents so much without even knowing them, or without seeing how much they _loved_ each other, and how good parents they were, because they definitely were, 100 per cent, and _Dave was 100 per cent their son._ He would’ve been happy _strangling_ those boys without regrets, because _no one_ said those things about _his dads._

“Jesus,” Chris muttered and moved, and then his arms wrapped around Dave’s shoulders. They weren’t usually physically affectionate with each other, if one didn’t count fist bumps and friendly punches on the arm, but now Dave relished the feeling, just as he had two weeks prior when he had told Dad and Pop about the whole thing.

“I wanted to _kill_ them for a moment,” Dave said, rage echoing in his strangled voice. He could feel his hands start shaking, ghost pain touching his knuckles. “I don’t regret that punch _one bit._ The bastard deserved it.”

“I would’ve been happy to hold ‘im down for you, yeah,” Chris said, and it was the first time ever Dave heard him sound dark like that, or even _refer_ to violence. It wasn’t in Chris’ blood, but then again… Dave had thought it wasn’t in his, either. He had been shocked after the punch, had been seriously terrified with himself for a moment, not knowing what to do with himself, or _what_ he was. Dad and Pop had always vouched for non-violence, and Dave had seen it himself too, when someone said something, and Dad and Pop had just done their best to protect _him_ and get him out of the situation, and _never_ had they raised a hand against anyone.

When having to explain his actions to Jacob Moore and his parents at school, Dave had appeared regretful, but he had also told what Jacob and the other boys had said. Both Mr. Cooper and Jacob’s form tutor had seemed shocked, and for a good reason. Dad and Pop, too, since Dave hadn’t censured his tale as much as he had when first telling about it. He had told about the AIDS comment, and that his parents couldn’t supposedly love him, and after that... Dad and Pop took the lead.

Dave wasn’t sure he could ever forget the way his dads had _destroyed_ Jacob and his parents, only their intelligence and words as their weapons. He was inspired, too, and impressed. He had got his fair share of “arguments should never end with violence, and Dave knows it”, but most of their words had been directed at the other family, and Dave had just watched in awe as the two adults next to Jacob almost cowered visibly under his dads’ combined wrath.

They were _amazing,_ and Dave had probably never respected them more than at that moment. Paul and John had managed to get him out of most trouble, showing that Dave regretted the punch, felt sorry for it, and acknowledged that he had acted rashly in the situation. He had impressed the teachers with his mature apology, while Jacob had never even thought about having to apologise — which was eventually fished out of him, Paul and John staring at him with their frightening combined force of Good Parenting, which Dave had to admit was all they were about.

Now, after two weeks had passed, Dave had come to the conclusion that he _definitely_ didn’t regret that punch. He would never repeat it, if it was up to him, he wouldn’t even _consider_ hitting anyone, but that wanker of a blert had deserved all of the pain, because he had _no clue_ what Dad and Pop had gone through in their lives, and Dave would rather _die_ protecting them than let some arsehole say such things about them. He had seen how Dad had been fuming on their drive home — and he had heard them talking in bed, voices slightly more heated than usually. He had seen how stricken both Dad and Pop had seemed to be after hearing the _“not able to love Dave like real parents”_ -comment, and he’d seen how much those comments had _hurt_ them. Dave wouldn’t forgive _anyone_ who did that to _his_ dads.

The next morning Dad had entered his bedroom a second after Dave’s alarm had gone off, sat on the bed with a hand over Dave’s blanket, and said that no matter what anyone said, Dave was their son, and they loved their children more than anything, and wouldn’t have changed Dave for anyone else, and were blessed to have such a fine son.

Dave had almost cried then, still raw on emotions, and then Dad had congratulated him on a well-laid punch, and had shaken his hand with a grin and a wink that clearly said _“don’t tell Paul I said this or I’ll die”,_ and just like that all the mixed, hurt feelings in Dave’s stomach were gone, and he had laughed, and had felt _so_ much better. Ever since then it had felt like he had been more at _peace,_ lashing out less than before, and the overall feeling in the house had been happy and calm.

“The dads were pretty angry at first,” he said, wiping away a few tears that had escaped, leaning on Chris’ comforting hug. “But I feel like in the end they were on me side.”

“Of course,” Chris said, firm and comforting. “Of course they were.”

They sat in silence, and then Chris suddenly pulled back. Dave turned to him with a questioning eyebrow, but then noticed the cows moving towards the gates. He turned to peer around the tree, and saw Uncle Ringo walking towards them.

_“ Wa?” _he greeted them with a grin. “Dave, for your information, your parents just abandoned you here,” he chuckled. “Terrible parenting, it is. You can have tea with us, and then we’ll go spend the evening at the cottage, alright laas?”

_“ Iawn,”_ Chris said while Dave nodded next to him.

“Oh, and Dave might wanna see the kittens,” Ringo winked, and Dave’s head snapped on Chris, his eyes widening.

_“Kittens??”_

“You’re your da’s son, alright,” Ringo laughed, and then one of the cows, probably Arwen, headbutted him on his arse gently.

“Yeah yeah, _dwi’n dod ,” _the man chuckled and turned to pat Arwen on the head. _“ Chris, a fedri di wirio bod ganddynt ddŵr cyn i ti ei?”_

_“ Medri,” _Chris nodded and got up.

“Hang on! What kittens??” Dave said, scrambling to get to his feet. Chris laughed and feigned innocence.

“I don’t know? What kittens?”

“You have _kittens??”_

Dave sprinted after Chris and the boys raced together at the gates, where Chris checked whether the cows still had enough water. Ringo watched them go before chuckling and shaking his head to himself.

_“ Tyrdwch, genod,” _he called to the cows. _“ Fe wnaf wirio’ch babanod.”_

The cows mooed softly and Ringo smiled, enjoying the time spent with all three of them still there, knowing that it was better to take one day at a time than mourn the future.

Everything had its own time, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**
> 
> _Helo_ \- Hello  
>  _panad_ \- North Welsh English for a cuppa  
>  _os gwelwch yn dda_ \- if you please  
>  _Ia, Tad_ \- Yeah, Dad  
>  _Laa da,_ \- Good lad.  
>  _Iawn... Pryd ydyn ni’n bwyta?_ \- Yeah... When do we eat?  
>  _Ar ôl chwech_ \- After six  
>  _Yn bon amser_ \- Like always  
>  _Moidering_ \- North Wenglish for babbling, talking shit, rambling, etc.  
>  _Wa?_ \- "Alright lads" = hello in the Bala dialect  
>  _Iawn_ \- Yeah  
>  _dwi’n dod_ \- I'm coming  
>  _Chris, a fedri di wirio bod ganddynt ddŵr cyn i ti ei?_ \- Chris, can you check they have water before you go?  
>  _Medri_ \- Yes I can  
>  _Tyrdwch, genod_ \- Come, girls  
>  _Fe wnaf wirio’ch babanod._ \- I'll check your babies
> 
> **LANGUAGE RAMBLING**
> 
> Ringo also puts a "yeah" at the end of sentences by default, a bit like a Liverpudlian would say "like". Both he and Chris are completely fluent in both English and Welsh, and their speech is marked by Welsh creeping into it sometimes. Chris also has the influence of George's scouse colouring his language, and as such he's a cheerful little hodgepodge of languages, accents and dialects. 
> 
> Ringo also uses "again" in the meaning of "after", so _"I’ll have one again working in the office"_ is actually _"I’ll have one after working in the office"_. The Welsh also have a rather free word order, but I haven't gone on to portray that due to the slow death that would've caused. There's lots and lots more to this but I WON'T ADDRESS IT cos I know I'm a language freak and no one else probably is interested, but if you want me to, in that case just drop a comment and i'll explain my head off.
> 
> I'm also sorry for all the financial talk but ISN'T THAT WHAT ADULTS TALK ABOUT.
> 
> I also regret to inform you that the traffic song is an actual finnish song that plagued my family when i was 4 to the extent that singing it was literally prohibited. what appears in this chapter is a free translation. [you can listen to the horror song here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KBjGJcY0CRo) and then imagine that on repeat for three hours. i'd take that bullet ANY DAY.
> 
> (the awful thing is that i still know this by heart and i rEGRET)


	6. Let’s Get Wicked Blaaazed, Mate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That 90′s AU where John and Paul meet at a party, bond over Nirvana, get wicked blaaazed, duude, and then proceed to forget anything but each other’s eyes existing. And by the end of the night it really seems like they have no other choice but to choose each other. Dope!
> 
> **!! Possible to read SEPARATELY from the rest of the fic, if you just want to enjoy a one-shot of your boys with a 90's vibe. !!**
> 
>  **Chapter warnings:** Swearing, sex, drugs, and the year is 1993 so just imagine everyone wearing the worst baggy clothes ever for the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a FLASHBACK CHAPTER. That means that it happens in the PAST. Just look at the dates. confusion-free reading experience guaranteed. 
> 
> Other than that........this chapter just kept on getting longer and longer..... just......... so long.... and i've written like the last 14k during the last two days (9k on one, 5k on another). Consequently this chapter is _23,000 words long._ You weren't waiting for that, huh? well guess what. I WASN'T EITHER
> 
> If you wanna get in the mood, I suggest you listen to Nirvana's _In Utero_ while reading this, hahah. Also, at one point the lads start listening to Elvis. *cough* you can't miss it. If _YOU_ wanna hear what they're hearing, just [_tune up to this playlist I made on youtube._](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Y-bd3aDMGA&list=PL-IUyYvvRVlvJUmDUr58b0eO4GFhRSA-U) Makes it all the more fun ;)
> 
> Some word explanations will be at the end notes! Have fun reading!! Also super thanks to Puck (again) for reading this about 5 times at different states and telling me which parts sucked! Cheers!

_23.10.1993_

Paul pressed his new headphones tighter against his head, Kurt Cobain’s raspy voice shooting through his eardrums in a satisfying cacophony of distorted guitars and booming drums. He had been listening to Nirvana’s new album for about three times in a row now, despite the fact that he should’ve been getting up from the bed and start dressing for the party George had invited him to. The album was just _so_ captivating though, and Paul’s headphones just a _tad_ too fab for him to put both items away.

It was inspiring, really, listening to the album, and Paul wasn’t sure if he had ever heard anything like it. Usually he preferred something softer and more melodic, but… Nirvana didn’t really lack in melody, and the harsher sounds of the instruments fit perfectly. It was his favourite band for a reason — the music was a perfect blend between minimalism and complicity. It almost gave Paul an urge to sit down at the piano downstairs and start sketching a song on his own, but listening to the album won over the want… and besides there was the party—

“Paul! _Paul!_ _”_ a voice called from above and he opened one eye with a frown, squinting at his younger brother who was hovering beside his bed, the light shining brightly above his head.

“Huh?” Paul raised one eyebrow, making it clear that he _didn_ _’t_ want to be disturbed as long as he was enjoying this… nirvana. (Pun wholeheartedly intended.)

“George is ‘ere,” Michael stared back. “Downstairs chattin’ with Mum, like.”

“George is _here??_ _”_ Paul sat up abruptly, scrambling to get his headphones off. He hadn’t told George about them yet, or about the album, but he had thought of saving it for later — because if George heard about them now, then they would _not_ be going to the party, and Paul _did_ want to go… despite his urge to ditch the whole thing in the favour of turning the cassette over.

“I mean, looked a lot like ‘im,” Michael stepped back to get out of Paul’s way as he flew across the room from a piece of clothing to another, his mind running desperately through different style options. Should he go for something punk or try following the fashion? He hadn’t thought about it at all — and he knew he would be in trouble if George got up here now and saw that Paul hadn’t even _started_ getting ready.

In the end he grabbed a pair of high-waisted jeans, a t-shirt with Nirvana’s smiley logo printed on it, and on top of it all he threw his favourite denim jacket. That would do well — it was trendy but not too fancy, and Paul was sure to merge well with the rest of the people in the party, who would presumably be mostly older than he or George.

“Why would George come ‘ere?” he asked with confusion as he pulled on his brown combat boots that still shone, so new they were. Michael shrugged, studying with intensive attention how Paul styled his hair so that his fringe was hanging _just_ right above his temples, leaving the forehead bare.

“I’m ‘ere to make sure ye’re _on time,_ _”_ George’s voice called from the door and Paul turned to shoot a frown at him.

“Shouldn’t you be there, helping?” he said, if not a bit sulkily. No one would’ve cared if he was a bit late to a party where he didn’t even know anybody, save for George and his big brother.

George shrugged as an answer, and that was the end of that inquiry. Paul huffed and checked that he had his keys, and five minutes later the two were running to their bikes, Paul’s mum waving from the door.

“Ye know,” George said as they were biking towards his brother’s flat, “ye should move out soon. Ye’re a uni student, now.”

“I’ve been thinkin’ about it,” Paul said, thinking how sad it was that everyone else was probably arriving on motorbikes and cars and here he was, biking through the city with a 17-year old twig… who just happened to be his best friend, and a tight guy, really. “But I don’t wanna do it alone.”

“Well, when I start in uni, do it with me,” George said matter-of-factly, and Paul didn’t find a reason to disagree — as he said, George was a great guy… even though he snored a bit.

“Yeah, why not,” he said. “It’s not like I’m gonna start datin’ anyone before that, either.”

George laughed and nodded, soon launching into an enquiry of What Were Those Headphones On Paul’s Bed and Had That Been Nirvana’s New Album He Saw As A Cassette On Paul’s Table.

***~**~***

The party was held by George’s big brother Peter, who worked as a panel beater near the university. Due to young men wandering into his care ever-so-often caused by late night drinking and driving, he had collected a rather impressive group of party friends from all sorts of backgrounds. Peter lived in a flat with three other guys, and as such there was plenty of space for live-changing parties that had people buzzing for weeks to come. From alcohol or weed, Paul wasn’t sure, but he was adamant to be buzzing at least from one of the two.

He wasn’t sure how George’s parents let him come into Peter’s parties — but then again, maybe they didn’t know that such stuff existed… or they just didn’t care, trusting George to be level-headed enough. Either way, as far as _Paul_ _’s_ parents were concerned, Paul was just going to hang out a bit with George. And hopefully come home in one piece, too.

They left the bikes outside, already able to hear the music banging against the inner walls of the old building. Paul exchanged an excited grin with George and together they made their way inside, up to the third floor. If they were lucky, the party would go on till the early night — if not, then the landlord would cut it short after two hours. In any case the party was worth enjoying of, and Paul let himself be immersed by the music drowning him the moment they stepped through the door.

“Paauul!! Whazzzuuuup,” Peter was shaking his hand within seconds, already clearly well into his personal bottle of wine that was hanging from his slightly limp left hand. “Good to see ye, mate, truly pimpin’… Get comfortable, there’s booze in the fridge… an’ on the table… in the loo… pretty much anywhere ye look, an’ if ye wanna get blazed, ye should ask… ask…” he turned to squint at the room that had been lit up with purple and green lights, thus making it difficult to recognise individual people, “…Robert! That’s the fella,” he pointed at a young man with long hair, a gangster hat, and four neon-coloured ties that had different head-swirling patterns on them. “He’s got the best weed. If ye forget, jus’ ask about anyone, an’ they’ll point ye at ‘im.”

“’Kay,” Paul nodded, tugging his hand away from Peter who had yet to let go, their palms getting sticky with sweat from the prolonged contact. He was rather sure he wouldn’t be able to forget this Robert bloke anyway — he looked like he had skipped a few years from -85 straight to this day. The more Paul looked at him, the more things he noticed; it wasn’t just long hair, but a mullet, and his trousers were definitely _not_ jeans, but something that resembled pink in the lighting of the flat, accompanied by a loose shirt that seemed to be green with a crazy floral pattern. And attached to his belt he had a _mobile phone._ Okay. Paul was _definitely_ not going to forget him.

“He’s from the _Wirral,_ _”_ Peter said, and Paul’s eyes widened. Wow. Now _that_ was something.

“It’s jus’ on the other side of the river,” George huffed, hands crossed over his chest as he studied Robert’s shirt with something akin to horror flashing in his eyes.

“It is quite special,” Paul raised an eyebrow, not able to deny it. “Never been there.”

“Speakin’ of… um, things,” Peter turned to George, who tried to get away before Peter’s hand landed on his shoulder, rooting him to the ground with unnecessary force. “We need more crisps.”

“Don’t look at me!” George tried to shake Peter’s hand off, but the man had an iron grip on him.

“I’m givin’ ye alcohol,” Peter grinned widely, and George stopped struggling with a deep sigh.

“How much?”

“Probably like, ten bags would be enough for now.”

George muttered to himself with his signature frown in place, and turned towards the door again.

“Sorry, Paul. Hang on a bit, will ye?” he said and Paul shrugged, not really seeing any other options. He sure as hell didn’t want to be the one to carry crisps to the party with the 17-year old slave of the party holder.

“I’ll socialise a bit,” he grinned and George nodded, looking severely displeased with the turn of the events — from Paul talking to other people than him, or having to bike to the nearest open shop, Paul wasn’t sure. Probably both.

Soon alone and not knowing a soul apart from Peter, Paul wandered around the flat, stepping from one discussion to another. None of them caught his interest though, varying from yesterday’s game to the latest episode of the TV series _Brookside_ that Paul _did_ watch, but didn’t find it interesting enough to actually engage in a deep analysis… No, Paul would rather do that to a good book, preferably by Shakespeare, too, if possible, or Jane Austen.

The rooms were pulsing with some American music that he didn’t know. The style was hip-hop, and Paul would’ve preferred something else, really. He loved Oasis and had a knack for 70’s music and listened to some punk as well when the mood hit (and he liked the clothes), but Nirvana was the biggest. The _hugest._ Even with the new album now out, Paul could hardly wait for the next one.

After some good fifteen minutes of vague wandering, he ended up slouching on the couch with a bunch of young men from the working class that were talking about football — and had chosen a depressing subject as well: the death of 96 Liverpool fans in a match four years ago which had shaken the whole city to its core. Apparently one of the guys had lost two friends that day, and Paul _really needed to get out_ of this conversation, because it was just too awful, and he wasn’t here to think about that particular day that would never leave his memory, about those few terrifying moments where he couldn’t remember whether someone important to him had been at that game.

Muttering something about another beer, he got up and slipped away, thinking that this was definitely not how he had thought this party to go. He really— _really_ needed _air—_

He started heading for the balcony, grabbing one unopened beer bottle on the way, and zigzagged through the masses, his ears snatching small tidbits of the conversations he passed.

And then someone exclaimed right next to his ear:

“Not this _shit_ again— Peter!! Peter, this _crap_ _’s_ gotta — where are your Nirvana records??”

Paul’s head whipped around faster than the rest of his body could react, and he stumbled a bit before regaining his balance. A young man, probably a few years older than Paul, was standing three steps away from him, holding an open, unrolled joint in one hand, a can of beer in another. He stared past Paul with a slightly disgusted expression, which Paul put down to another hip hop song having begun.

“I don’t have any!!” Peter yelled from the other side of the room. “Sorry, mate!”

A suffering look passed over the man’s face, and as he shifted Paul’s attention was drawn to the man’s t-shirt under an open flannel shirt. Kurt Cobain’s face greeted him from it, and the bells in Paul’s head started ringing as every thought of going to the balcony disappeared right away. Paul was a simple soul; if someone was sporting a Nirvana shirt, they were immediately his friends. No other requirements needed.

“What a wanker,” the man muttered and started turning back to the conversation he had been engaged in before the new song began, but Paul jumped in — in Peter’s parties, it was more of a rule than a suggestion to interrupt people so that you could join them.

“Hey — just wanted to say, sweet shirt, mate,” he said and took a few steps forward, knowing that his shirt would be perfectly visible, and thus their simple souls would synchronise and reach contentment together, bonding over the best band on Earth—

“Huh? Oh, thanks,” the man said, shot him a grin, and turned back to the other people in the small circle Paul had just breached.

Paul stared at him with a confused expression — hadn’t the man seen his shirt? He had barely glanced at Paul, but definitely long enough to see the Nirvana logo peeking from underneath his jacket.

The others in the circle started chuckling, and then one of them pointed at Paul.

“Ey, John, I think ye should look at ‘is shirt.”

The lad, John, turned back to Paul with a confused look of his own that matched Paul’s perfectly, and then… he squinted and leaned in to Paul’s personal space to peer at his shirt, making Paul feel like he almost needed to step back. He wondered whether he had made a good decision talking to the guy — he seemed a bit odd.

“Oh. Ohh!” John then exclaimed and straightened his back. “So sorry, mate, I didn’t see that — haven’t got me specs on! You a fan, too?”

“Enormous,” Paul felt his face melt into a wide grin, relieved that there was nothing wrong with the Potential New Friend and that the lad only suffered from bad eyesight. “Have you got the new album yet?”

“Oh, yeah. Got it the day it came out!” John grinned back, and his friends rolled their eyes, turning away from the conversation.

“Okay, now that Johnny’s started talking about that album, we’ll never get any actual conversation rolling. Have the crisps arrived yet?” one of the girls said, and the group disbanded with everyone heading into different directions. John remained by Paul’s side, not at all fazed by the remark. He looked at Paul with a mischievous expression, the green and purple lights colouring his appearance so that it was impossible to say what colour his hair or eyes were, and Paul took immediate liking to him. There was something in that gaze that simply drew him in, and his heart thudded against his chest a couple of times more than necessary for some reason.

At least he had good company until George came back.

“What’s your favourite song, then?” he asked after a small moment of silence where he waited everyone to clear out, watching John intently. The lad seemed to pause for a moment, thinking, and then nodded to himself as if coming to a life-altering decision.

“It varies, but right now I’d say _Rape Me._ _”_

“Yeah,” Paul laughed. “Me dad’s banned the whole album after hearin’ that one.”

“Tell me about it! I’m lucky I don’t live home anymore — although compared to the misogynistic words in this _crap,_ _”_ John shuddered and nodded his head towards the stereos, “Kurt is sprouting sunshine and angels.”

Paul laughed and nodded, happy to agree with that. John sounded like a funny guy — this could be enjoyable in more ways than just talking about the music.

“D’ye play?” he asked, thinking that John looked the type to carry an instrument around. Maybe it was the way his hair imitated Kurt’s shoulder-length locks, or his grunge clothes, or the joint in his hand… usually guys who looked like him would also play something, no matter how poorly.

“Oh yeah,” John said, confirming Paul’s thoughts. “Guitar a bit, and harmonica.”

“Sweet,” Paul grinned, and then added, trying to sound nonchalant, “I do too, guitar I mean, and piano.”

“You a music student, then?”

“Ho, oh no,” Paul laughed, shaking his head. Right at that moment the music got louder when a popular song Paul didn’t care about came on, and everybody started yelling and singing along. He heard John curse over the music, and then the lad pointed towards the kitchen with the hand that was holding the joint.

“How ‘bout we move over there?!” he yelled over the music. “The lights are brighter there, too, so I can see something.”

“Sounds like a plan!” Paul shouted back, and they started pushing their way towards the kitchen. Just as they were almost at the kitchen door someone bumped into Paul from behind, and he stumbled against John, the weed from the unrolled paper falling to the ground.

“Oh, jeez— sorry!” Paul called, John’s now free hand having grabbed his shoulder to keep him upright.

“Don’t worry about it! Robert has probably a ton with ‘im!” John laughed and pulled Paul out of the crowd, his hand never letting go of Paul’s shoulder.

They stepped into the kitchen, the normal lights blinding Paul for a moment. He saw John blinking too, and then the man’s head whipped around, a grin spreading on his lips as he seized Paul to place. He was suddenly so close, and Paul could see his eyes were of beautiful deep brown colour. His heart skipped a beat and he held his breath, the skin under John’s palm getting hotter.

“Now, let me take a good look at ye—” John started with a cheerful voice as his eyes met Paul’s, and the words seemed to die in his throat. His hand fell off from Paul’s shoulder, and Paul was surprised by the feeling on emptiness it left in its wake.

Silence fell between them, and he raised an eyebrow at John just staring at him, the man’s narrow eyes sweeping him up and down sharply. For some reason Paul felt hot all over, and he felt an odd urge to prove himself somehow — what did John think about him? Did he look too young, or too girlish? No, Paul was _completely_ equal to the other man, and he would sure as hell _show_ it—

“What did ye say you were studyin’ again?” John said, and his pleasantly nasal voice sounded raspy. He coughed faintly and took a long swig of his beer, which made Paul remember he had one still unopened in his hand.

“Uh, English,” he said, turning to look for a bottle opener. There was wont to be one on the kitchen counters for sure, unless it had got lost somewhere in the living room…

“Right— you’re 18?”

“Yeah,” Paul threw a glance at John, a bit of a challenge in his voice. John’s eyes snapped up to meet his and Paul felt an inexplicable shudder run through his spine.

John had been staring at his arse.

He faltered for a moment, his throat suddenly feeling dry. He held John’s gaze and the longer it went on, the dryer his throat felt, and he squeezed the beer bottle tightly in his hand. John’s eyes — the _very_ same that had _just_ been looking at Paul’s backside — were holding an unreadable look, and Paul’s nerves started bundling up.

 _He had been looking at Paul_ _’s arse._

“You?” he asked after a moment of just staring at John, seeing how his Adam’s apple bopped up and down as the lad swallowed.

“Just turned twenty,” John said slowly, eyes drilling into Paul’s in a way that should’ve made him uncomfortable, but the feeling never came — he just felt warm all over. “I’m an art student, at John Moores.”

“Really?” Paul’s eyes widened at that and he turned back to the counters to look for the opener. He didn’t know why, but he suddenly felt a lot more conscious about his body… that had never happened, not in _this_ way. Sure, he liked to look good, liked other people to think that he looked good, but not… not in _this way._ He didn’t know what _this way_ was, but… the thought that John might have been measuring him up and down again right now somehow tickled his stomach, and not in a bad way. “So… you started when it was still a polytechnic?”

“Damn skippy! Nothin’ much has changed yet, though.”

“Huh…You don’t look like an art student, if you don’t mind me saying,” Paul said and leaned forward to check behind a pile of empty beer bottles, a part of his brain exclaiming with a terrified voice that he was _sticking his arse out_ to John, while the rest of his body hummed oddly at the thought.

“Well, not all of us are like Robert and ‘is clique,” John snorted and Paul chuckled, finally finding the opener from a pile of empty crisp bags. He quickly uncorked his bottle and took a mouthful, feeling like he desperately needed it.

“And are you like, gonna be what after graduating?” he asked and turned around after having collected himself — he needed to stop thinking about John’s eyes and arses and the odd, tight feeling in the pit of his stomach.

John shrugged and took another sip of his beer. “Someone who draws a lot, I guess.”

“Obviously,” Paul grinned. “I wanna become an English teacher, or somethin’ like that.”

“Ugh, that would require interacting with kids on a daily basis,” John grimaced and Paul laughed, nodding.

“Unfortunately. Ye don’t like children?”

“Am talking to one now, ain’t I?” John said with that mischievous look again in place. Paul frowned at him, putting a free hand to his hip. He wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that.

A tense silence fell between them, and then John snorted, the sound turning into laughter. It was carefree and wild, and Paul’s heart gave an extra thud again. There was something in that laugh that made him want more of where it came from.

“Piss off,” he said lamely, not quite able to fight a smile that spread on his face soon after. He leaned against the counter and pretended not to be smiling, but John took one glance at his face and burst into another fit of laughter, and Paul just couldn’t help but join him, the sound of John’s good-natured howls amusing him more than the man’s light teasing.

That broke something — the tension or Paul’s sanity, he wasn’t sure, but suddenly every bit of hesitation, everything that held him back seemed to crumble down in pieces, and found he couldn’t care _less_ if John stared at his arse, or whatever. Let him stare! At least the guy had a wonderful, somewhat addicting laugh, and Paul would probably never see him again — so why did he care, exactly? If John somehow found him, er, _sexually_ desirable (Paul’s neck prickled at the thought, opposed to the usual coldness that swept over him in similar occasions), then… what bad could come out of it? He was entertaining, and clearly a fun guy, and Paul couldn’t really _prevent_ John from looking.

As long as it stayed that way only.

“Well, of course, when you think about it,” he said in a lazy voice with newfound confidence, twirling the beer in his bottle, “to ancient dinosaurs everyone must seem but a child…”

“Hey!” John exclaimed, and Paul started laughing again. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the smell of weed in the air, or John’s somehow irresistible grin, but Paul found himself wishing that George would take a small while longer. Now _that_ would be unforgivable… John seeing him with such a baby. His interest in Paul would surely disappear right at that moment.

He didn’t need to worry, though; it seemed that George was well on his way of taking _all_ the time in the world. The discussion with John evolved into a heated battle of the best Nirvana song to exist, and Paul discovered that John had a stupid, soft spot for 80’s pop that Paul didn’t support (unless he was locked into his room and no other person on earth heard what he was listening to), that he thought Bob Dylan and Elton John to be amazing, and that before Nirvana he had mostly listened to the Pet Shop Boys and the Police. Paul was slightly taken aback by his diverse taste in music, but had to admit that none of the artists John named were _bad._ Maybe Paul would have to delve a bit deeper into Elton John… and the Police were one of his favourites, too.

Before long, not that he could _really_ tell how it happened, he had ended up on Peter’s bed with his legs sprawled over John’s thighs, rolling a joint with him and having the time of his life. Someone dropped by to snap a photo of them, telling that Peter had given her the task to immortalise the party, and Peter’s dinosaur blanket deserved to be remembered. Paul and John agreed to that, not minding the photo at all. The girl disappeared as fast as she had come, waving at them and wishing them a good party, to which the two responded in kind.

Paul’s jacket had disappeared somewhere after Paul had taken it off in the kitchen, feeling so _hot_ constantly, and John’s eyes were captivating, his smile warm and constantly adorning his face, and Paul’s stomach was turning over every time the man grinned at him. He had noticed how he looked at him, even though John _tried_ to be subtle about it; his gaze would linger on Paul’s mouth, or he would stare at Paul and smile for a moment too long, or his eyes would sweep over Paul’s body quickly when he thought Paul wasn’t paying attention.

Maybe it was the pot, but it didn’t bother him at all. Instead he relished the looks John was giving him, growing more and more confident with himself as the colours turned brighter and the smell of the weed and John’s cologne filled his senses. Peter’s dinosaur blanket danced vividly under them, light red turning into a burning scarlet, and tame yellow into a bright orange. Paul found himself moving closer to John, wanting to see what colour his eyes would be now under the influence of the joint in his hand.

John was taking a long puff from his joint, his eyes closed and a blissful expression on his face. His head seemed strange, as if floating in the middle of the colourful surroundings, the reddish tint in his hair becoming brighter and brighter until his face was framed by a breathtakingly beautiful, flaming red halo. Paul stared at it with an open mouth for a while before leaning forward and reaching out a hand to tug at the hem of the man’s baggy flannel shirt.

“Hey— hey, look at me,” he said, and John opened his eyes slowly, pupils clearly dilated. Paul stared at the way his mouth curled into a smile, and after staring at John’s lips for unnecessary long, he lifted his gaze to meet John’s.

Paul’s rational mind told him that John’s eyes were of warm brown, but he could imagine the purple and green lights flashing in them so vividly that he had to blink twice to get rid of the illusion. He looked deeper, leaning closer still, and was astonished by the gold that seemed to be swirling among the deep chocolate brown.

“You… you have gold in your eyes,” he said a bit breathlessly, heart thumping against his chest. John’s mouth broke into a grin, and Paul’s gaze flicked down to his crooked front tooth that seemed to shine white in the middle of all the other colours decorating his appearance.

“You got… you got green,” John said, sounding mesmerised. “And orange, and… and honey, and…”

“That’s a lot of colours,” Paul said and broke into giggles, to which John joined right after. His body radiated warmth and Paul found himself craving for it, goosebumps breaking through his skin. God, it almost felt like electricity running through him — the feeling was addictive, and Paul wanted more, leaning closer and closer, and how much closer could he still get?

“You… you smell so sweet,” he said with an absent voice, sniffing around a bit. “Like wood. Like sweet wood.”

“That’s probably the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me,” John said, now staring at Paul’s mouth, and Paul started laughing again, his face so close to John’s they would’ve been kissing if, say, John accidentally sneezed.

And then Paul realised just _how_ close they actually were.

He sat up abruptly, staring at John whose gaze came slowly back up to meet his eyes. The man arched a questioning eyebrow, and Paul opened his mouth, his mind way too slow and blank for him to produce anything to say.

Meanwhile, his body was itching to get closer to John, his spine vibrating with a strange hum, the skin in his neck prickling, and suddenly Paul was feeling so _hot_ again, his eyes falling down to where he was practically sitting in John’s lap, and…

Oh, God.

John was _hard._ There, where his shirt didn’t cover up his crotch, Paul could see his erection pushing against his denim-covered front, but instead of the repulsed reaction Paul would usually have—

—he realised he _liked_ the fact _he_ had been the one causing that.

!!!

He jumped away from John, scrambling to get off the bed. John’s eyes followed him sharply, confusion marring his expression.

“Huh?” he said with a frown, while Paul tried very hard not to fall back into his warm, inviting lap. “What?”

“I— I— _loo,_ _”_ he gasped, motioning over to the bedroom door. “I’ll— I’ll be right back!”

John looked at him with his eyebrows raised a little, clearly slightly taken aback with Paul’s sudden frenzy, but then straightened his position and nodded.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll be here,” he said, and a calm and friendly grin rose to his lips. Paul, his head quickly descending into a confused and desperate cacophony, let out a vague sound through his nose, and rushed out of the room.

The moment he did so the music and the noise hit him straight into his chest, and he needed a second to collect himself; the quietness of the bedroom and John’s larger-than-life presence had made him forget that there was an actual party going on with full force, people now starting to be in high moods — quite literally. There was shouting over the music, half of the guests dancing, and the purple and green lights flashed in Paul’s eyes bright like sunlight, now making him feel disoriented.

He pushed his way through the flat, his head in a swirl that made him unable to think of anything else but his comfortable feelings towards John and his hard-on, and that he needed to get into the loo. He went past Robert and his clique, some of the art students dancing a bit weirdly along to the music, swaying like twigs in the wind. The smell of pot hung above the place, and Paul found it hard to concentrate with the music, the colours, and the people — where was the loo again? He had been here before, he _knew_ where it was —

“Peter! Peter—” he caught a sight of the Main Man jumping up and down with the rhythm of the music, and elbowed his way over to him. “Hiya, the lavvy— where’s the lavvy, mate??”

“Back there,” Peter yelled over the music, pointing at the back of the living room. “Ye havin’ fun? George is sure takin’ ‘is time!”

Paul, already having forgotten that George existed, didn’t find anything clever to say. Yes, he was having fun, or at least he _had been,_ up until the moment of realisation that his newest acquaintance with a captivating smile and even more addicting laughter had had an _erection_ because of Paul, and _Paul was not even uncomfortable with it._

“I— I, I’ve been with John,” he shouted back, and Peter raised his eyebrows, stopping his dancing for a moment.

“Oh, right, Nirvana heads,” he laughed. “Oh yeah, he’s a great fuck — first screws ye with his wit and before ye know it ye’re in ‘is bed. If only there were more people like ‘im — hey, look, it’s Amy! _Amy!! Everyone, Amy_ _’s here!!”_

A yell of delight rose over Paul and he was lost in the middle of people he didn’t know, Peter disappearing to welcome a girl who had just arrived. He looked around, feeling a bit nauseous, the colours becoming dimmer and ash-like — just _what_ had Peter said about John..?

He stumbled over to the loo and was lucky to find it empty. He closed the door with his shoulder and succumbed slightly against it, breathing deeply in and out, trying to calm his beating heart.

The thing was… that in his small life, he had _never_ found the thought of sex, or anything that had even remotely something to do with it, appealing at all. Neither had he _ever_ felt _any_ sexual desire towards any other person… _ever._ While the lads at school had talked about girls and stuff, Paul could never find it interesting enough. When George came along, they found it to be a shared mindset in that regard; George was more interested in guitars, and for Paul it was a subject he could talk about — although he wasn’t the sort of a fanatic George turned out to be, the lad wanting to make his living out of music.

After it became clear that he did not want to have anything to do with girls in _that way,_ Paul had considered about being gay, but that too seemed highly unlikely. He just wasn’t _interested_ in anyone, and had slowly come to the conclusion of simply not wanting sex. He had had small crushes on some people, but had figured out he only wanted a good cuddle with those relationships, and one time he’d thought to have been in love… as much as you can be when you’re 13. But then, too, he had bolted at the idea of actual sex, even though he wouldn’t have minded a relationship. But how to have one without sex?

When it came to masturbating, he did it on his own sometimes, but the fantasies were vague and detached with situations that didn’t include him at all, and he rarely found it pleasurable — it just didn’t hold any emotional impact, and he found it rather boring, to be frank. Sometimes he did wonder whether he was broken somehow, someone unnatural, but… He had come to accept the fact that he would probably live in a celibate for the rest of his life, and frankly didn’t find that thought unpleasant at all.

So all talk about sex, everything leading to it, everything to _do_ with it, anyone flirting with Paul _in that way_ made him uncomfortable…

And now.

Now, right now, John was sitting on the dinosaur blanket in Peter’s room with an erection most likely caused by Paul, and Paul was… okay with it. Maybe even a bit more than okay.

His skin was prickling again, and a thought passed in his mind. Did John — oh dear, did John think Paul wanted him _too??_ Paul had been sitting _so_ close, and had been itching to get closer still, and—

He realised he was still holding the joint in his fingers, and took a deep breath. Maybe it was all because of the pot. His senses were enhanced greatly which was proved by the light blue toilet lid looking like the bloody sea on a sunny day, and as such he had probably enjoyed the contact with John more than usually.

He quickly put the joint down by the sink and proceeded to splash some cold water on his face, hoping that it would help with… whatever it was that he was feeling at the moment. He stared at himself with a confused frown, water running down his red cheeks and dripping from his chin.

It could be the pot. It could be.

Or then…

Or then Paul actually _liked_ John, _in that way._

Could the  swirling feeling in his stomach be that? Attraction? Did he find John attractive? Did he _like_ John?

He bit his lip, not needing to look for the answer for a long time. Yes, he liked John, and _yes,_ he found the lad terribly attractive. He wasn’t even sure what the word meant, really, when other people used it, but it felt right. He thought back to John’s grinning face and his heart gave an extra thud.

Oh God, he actually _liked_ John. That would explain it all; the way his skin was prickling, or how he had goosebumps all over his arms, or how he was feeling _so hot_ he would’ve preferred to go without a shirt for the rest of the night.

He didn’t know what it meant that he _liked_ John. He knew he liked him in a different way than he liked, say, George for example. George was… George was a friend, and Paul had never really paid attention to how he looked like. But John…

At least in Paul’s pot-filled brain, John was more likely to have been sculpted by the gods than having been born from an ordinary human being.

He washed his hands in silence, managing to calm his raging heart a bit. The blush on his cheeks wouldn’t back down, and images of John sitting on the bed with a tent forming in his jeans kept pestering his mind. What was Paul going to do? He couldn’t… he couldn’t just go back, because… what if John thought it was okay for him to… to _kiss_ Paul, for example? Or try to do something more — Paul had always been careful when it came to people trying to advance sexually with him by cutting them off before they managed to get very far. Since John had been so… so… _intoxicating,_ would Paul be able to do that? Or what if the man was the type to take sexual advantage on you?

Maybe he should… maybe he should make it clear right from the start that he wasn’t interested in any of that, and that even if he liked John, it wasn’t _like that_ (even though Paul’s heart had jumped up at the thought of John kissing him, because what if John tasted as good as he smelled? Aw, fuck), and that Paul wouldn’t support any sort of unwanted actions. Urgh, it was so difficult to think with the pot slowing down his mind. He wasn’t sure at all what to do. All he could think of was that he _liked_ John, or maybe it was the pot, but at least under the influence of the pot he _liked_ John, and that had never happened before, either… Never had Paul felt anything like this, pot or not.

After drying his hands on a dirty towel and grabbing his joint from the sink, he breathed in deeply and stood still for a moment. He would have to get back to John, and he would… he would say that he wasn’t interested in sex, just straight like that, and so John wouldn’t need to stand his company if he wanted it only for… for possible sex.

As he exited the loo, he wondered why the thought of John wanting to have sex with him made his stomach jump in a pleasant way. He liked the man, but… it was in no ways sexual, because it was _impossible_ for Paul to feel sexual desire or attraction. He _knew_ that.

Why did he feel like he wouldn’t have minded kissing the man, though?

“Hey Paul!” there was a voice calling him and he turned his head, slightly startled that someone would know his name. It took him a while to place the head that approached him and he cursed the pot in his system… until he recognised the head to be George, and started snickering.

“You look funny,” he said and George huffed, straightening his arm in a silent demand for the joint. Paul gave it over and George took a long drag before giving it back to him. “You sure took your time.”

“Oh, really??” George sounded like he was ready for a heated discussion about the subject. “Try bikin’ through the whole neighbourhood with ten bags of crisps, with a bike that hasn’t got a rack — the bags kept fallin’ ‘n fallin’, an’ I don’t ‘ave tentacles—”

“Right,” Paul said, motioning towards the bedrooms before he was able to straighten his mind and think about his actions. “Let’s go there.”

“Huh?” George looked between the living room and the quieter corners of the flat. “Why there? The party’s ‘ere.”

“John’s there.”

“John?”

“Uhhuh,” Paul nodded, and started heading towards Peter’s bedroom. George followed him with a confused expression, muttering that he wasn’t blazed enough yet to understand Paul’s vague sentences properly.

“Ye took yer time,” John called the moment they stepped in, and Paul shrugged nonchalantly.

“When a man has to pee, a man has to pee,” he said, and they both broke into giggles over that. George looked between them with raised eyebrows, and tugged at Paul’s shirt.

“Paul, care to introduce us?”

“Paul?” John said sharply and sat up from where he had seemed to melt against the bed. “Your name’s Paul?” he looked at Paul with a drilling gaze.

“Uh. Yeah,” Paul scratched his cheek, not sure anymore of what he had planned to say to John. It had been something about liking him, but George’s appearance had wiped his whole head empty — as well as the pot. Bloody pot.

John stared at him for a while, and then gave a nod that somehow made Paul feel accepted.

“Right. An’ who’s the kid?”

“I’m not a kid!” George exclaimed, emphasising his childishness with his words. Paul almost grimaced, because if John already thought of _him_ as a kid, with George presenting himself as Paul’s best friend, Paul’s ‘cool points’ would drop drastically, and for some reason he wanted to impress the guy more than anything at the moment. What was it again that he needed to say to John?

“Oh, right, aren’t you Peter’s little brother? Greg? Grant?” John squinted, and Paul was reminded of the fact that John didn’t seem to see much without his glasses. “The crisp man?”

“Yeah,” George said, sounding a lot more pleased at being called the crisp man and not the crisp infant. “And the name’s George.”

“Wicked,” John said, his eyes falling on Paul again, his gaze making Paul feel hot all over. “I’m John.”

“John..?” George prompted, stepping past Paul to sit on the bed as well, throwing his brother’s dirty t-shirt on the floor like the caring sibling he was.

“Lennon,” John never let go of the stare with Paul, subtly patting the bed next to him… and Paul found his legs moving, the memory of John’s wonderful scent filling his mind, the man’s hair still resembling a beautiful red circle around his face.

“Hold on. John Lennon!” George suddenly yelled and jumped to his feet just as Paul sat down, moving back to his previous position of sprawling his legs over John’s thighs like he owned them. “John _Lennon!_ _”_

“Uh… yeah?” John raised an eyebrow and took a drag of his joint. “Am I famous?”

George’s eyes bulged from his head.

“Ye’re the one who slept with me sister!!”

“Oh, right!” John said with a delighted voice after seemingly having raked through his brain for a suspiciously long time. “Good old Louise!”

“And my brother!”

“Peter’s an open-minded lad, ‘s all I’m saying.”

George seemed at a loss for words, waving a hand in John’s general direction helplessly. His eyes swept over to Paul, and then back to John, before he lowered his arm with his monobrow in what seemed be permanent use.

“You— you go for both genders.”

“Yeah,” John nodded, his hand somehow finding it’s way on top of Paul’s leg. Paul felt a shudder go through his spine, and concluded it to be pot enhancing his senses. It felt good, and so he just shot a smile at John, somehow not at all bothered about the lad having basically slept with all of George’s siblings.

“Can’t ye jus’ _choose?_ _”_ George blurted out, crossing his arms over his chest in an attempt to protect himself from foul beings like John Lennon. John in turn looked at him with eyebrows raised, a slightly offended look on his face.

 _“No.”_ He said, voice suddenly tight. “I’m bisexual. I _can_ _’t_ choose one gender over another.”

“Bisexual?” Paul asked, looking at John with curiosity. He had so far only heard about hetero- and homosexuality.

“It’s when you like both genders,” John said, glancing at him with a softer look than what was aimed at George two seconds later. “And you can’t just _choose._ _”_

Meanwhile, Paul’s mind was slightly reeling over the fact that John had used the word ‘like’, and as such had reminded Paul that he, indeed, seemed to _Like_ John Lennon, and that if the word ‘like’ could be used to describe your sexual orientation as well… did that mean something? Paul’s snail-like mind couldn’t fit the pieces together, and he compensated by taking another puff from his loyal, unfortunately soon-to-be-finished joint.

“Huh,” he said, leaning his palm on the bed, his legs completely relaxed in John’s lap. John squeezed his knee slightly and Paul grinned at him, red spots colouring his cheeks. He really, really enjoyed it when John touched him. “So… you’re bisexual, then.”

“I jus’ said it, didn’t I?” John asked, and they started giggling together, George just staring at them with a small frown.

“What about you two, then?” John said after his giggles had died down. “Ye heard me biggest secret, so… are ye two jus’ straight, or… togeth—”

“Christ, no!!” Paul yelled, and burst into laughter right after that. This time George joined him, the pot slowly starting to affect him as well. “Oh, God, no, we’re not together.”

John shrugged, not at all bothered. His eyes returned to Paul, his gaze smoldering.

“Ye got anyone else, then?” he asked with a low voice, and Paul shook his head quickly, trying to contain his laughter.

“No, no, I, um,” he looked at John and bit his lip. The movement drew John’s eyes to his mouth, and Paul felt something wash over him — and somehow, his slow and mushy mind managed to find a good word for it. It was arousal.

“I—” he started, feeling breathless and hot all of a sudden, his eyelids getting heavier as he thought about John’s hard-on, and at the word _arousal._ “I usually, um, don’t feel anything towards anyone, but…” he paused, eyeing at John with a gaze that made the lad swallow, a blush starting to creep up to his cheeks through the red glow of his stubble. Paul’s stomach twisted at the thought that _he_ was the one causing those reactions.

“I… guess it depends a bit on the person I’m with,” he finished, holding John’s eyes, and _dammit,_ he didn’t care anymore — he liked John in _some_ way, and he was feeling arousal, and even if it was the first time in his life… who gave a shit? Paul didn’t! He was clearly having the best time ever, so why would he care what sort of feelings John’s hand on his knee gave him?

“Does it, now?” John’s eyes drilled into his, and Paul _sucked_ that gaze inside of him, leaning forward like a big great magnet was pulling at his body, and John started leaning towards him as well, his lips parting, and Paul’s heart almost jumped out of his throat at the thought of… of leaning so close that he would be practically _kissing_ John, and—

“Paul,” George said, his voice now completely bewildered. “What the fuck, mate?”

Paul started and pulled himself back, John doing the same. Both turned their eyes on George, who was standing in the middle of the bedroom with his hands on his hips, looking at them with his eyes wide as saucers.

“Paul, can I talk to ye for a bit?” he asked, jerking his head towards the bedroom door. Paul sighed and glanced at John, who seemed slightly pissed off at the prospect of Paul leaving. Paul guessed he wasn’t the only one who was feeling very _comfortable._

He got up with a frown, mourning the lost contact with John, and followed George sulkily outside the bedroom. George closed the door and turned to him with his eyebrows pressed together threateningly.

“Paul, ye seriously can’t— ye _seriously_ can’t mean that!! Ye basically told ‘im ye’re ready to fuck ‘im there an’ then!!” he hissed, and Paul raised an eyebrow, his body getting hotter and hotter at George’s words.

“No I didn’t,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Did you see ‘im though? He… he’s hella fine, isn’t he?”

“Paul, Christ!” George looked at him with wide eyes. “It’s John Lennon! He’s the Campus Casanova! There isn’t a single person in this room he hasn’t fucked yet, save maybe for the two of us!” he waved a hand towards the living room, and while Paul felt slightly uncomfortable at the thought, it didn’t feel quite the same as his disgust towards sex usually did. No… he felt a bit _jealous._

“He must be very experienced, then,” he said slowly, the words escaping his mouth before he really had time to process them, and with his pot-filled mind he hazily thought about John in bed. Hmm. The man must have been _really_ experienced.

“It’s John Lennon! Paul! Of all people—”

“And… there was gold in his eyes, George. Gold.”

“It’s John _Lennon!_ _”_

“And he smells like sweet wood— I’m going back,” Paul said, determined with his mind made up. George let out an incoherent noise, sounding helpless.

“It’s the pot, Paul! This is not you!” he called, grabbing Paul by the sleeve, and Paul stared at the lad’s hand squeezing his shirt for a moment before his mouth moved again.

“He likes Nirvana, too.”

“Oh.” George’s hand fell off, just like that, and a vague sound escaped his mouth.

“He… can’t be that bad, then,” he said, almost sounding defeated, but now there was curiosity as well. “What’s his favourite song?”

“It varies, but at the moment it’s _Rape Me._ _”_

“Huh.” George frowned, now looking slightly torn between dragging Paul out of the flat and dragging him inside the bedroom for a Detailed Discussion About Nirvana. “He… really can’t be that bad, then.”

And so, with George’s mind being fortunately as simple as Paul’s, a tragic separation between Paul and the Campus Casanova was avoided, and everyone smoked pot happily till two in the morning. When saying goodbyes to each other John slipped a piece of paper in Paul’s hand with his number written on it, accompanied by a drawing of Nirvana’s logo, and Paul flashed him one of his largest, shining smiles, promising to call soon.

And if something was sure, it was that promise, for Paul’s whole world had changed, and he was more than curious to explore it.

***~**~***

_30.10.1993_

Paul lay in bed with a boner, staring at the ceiling and thinking about John.

His cassette player and headphones were laying on the table, completely forgotten, as well as Nirvana’s new album. All that mattered was the feeling unlike any other that thinking about John’s smile created in his stomach… and the feeling hadn’t ceased. Now, a week after the party, he was still feeling like he was a bit blazed, thinking about John constantly, his mind creating up strange, vague images about… _situations_ including the lad. Paul would’ve called them fantasies had he not known better — he _couldn_ _’t_ feel sexual attraction, so they couldn’t be those.

He couldn’t deny that there was something really, really attractive in John, though. And that thought was the one that had led to his erection, pressing uncomfortably against the front of his briefs while John’s face danced in the ceiling teasingly. Also the fact that they had seen each other today, and John had treated him for an ice cream, did something to Paul’s stomach. For some reason he hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from the man eating the cold treat.

He felt almost feverish, thinking about the way John’s lips had smoothly rolled over the ice cream, and consequently he was harder than he had ever been in his life.

Well… it _had_ been a while since he’d got off. And he had already sort of made his peace with liking John… as long as Paul’s feelings stayed inside his own bedroom, John couldn’t hurt him, and wouldn’t try to do anything sexually either… although Paul had come to the conclusion that John wasn’t that sort of a man, thankfully.

He experimentally moved his left palm over his crotch, pressing down just slightly. The feeling that shot through his stomach was unlike anything he had ever felt and he let out a small exhale, his eyes falling closed for a moment. He could see John behind his eyelids, grinning at him with purple and green lights flashing in his eyes, making it impossible to say what colour they were, and the next time he pressed down his hand he couldn’t help but imagine it to be John’s.

Tension burst up in his abdomen and spread all over his stomach and he gasped as he started palming himself, images of John filling his head stronger than any fantasy ever before.

…How would it be if John was to touch him, really? How would his stubble feel against Paul’s skin? Or his lips? And how would it feel like to be kissed — Paul had once kissed a girl when he was fifteen, and that had been the defining moment of his life, showing him that girls weren’t his cup of tea — what would that press of lips feel like when it was John doing it?

His hips jerked as he pressed harder down on his erection, small, desperate sounds escaping his mouth. Opening his eyes he looked down on himself, watching his hand push against the bulge in his jeans faster and faster, and he wondered whether John would like to see him now. Would he find Paul _attractive_ in this fevered state — would John want him?

Obviously he had felt _some_ sort of an attraction towards Paul, but then again, it was clear from George’s words that John would sleep with pretty much anyone.

The thought suddenly filled him with blinding jealousy, his feelings shooting up into the ceiling unrestrained as pleasure grew, his mind capable of holding only one emotion at the time and then enhancing that into something unbelievably strong. Paul — he wanted John. John had wakened something that felt like a shattering need, now that his orgasm was so close.

If it felt this good from Paul just imagining John doing it… how would it be if John was to actually touch him?

He wanted John to be the one doing this.

He let out a small, desperate sob at the thought, his right hand curling against the bed, fisting his blanket. He was so close, all of his skin on fire, and a memory of John’s lips wrapping around the ice cream, a blissful expression on his handsome face shot up in his mind. And that image was replaced by John, naked, lying on Peter’s dinosaur blanket with that same expression as his hands delved into Paul’s hair, his smooth hard-on sliding against Paul’s—

— and Paul was coming, holding onto the bed as his legs jerked, a long, throaty moan escaping from his mouth, every thought disappearing from his mind. It felt like there would be no end to it.

He slumped against the bed while gasping for breath, for a second unsure which way the ceiling was. Jesus— he had never come so hard, or in such a short time, and he was glad that the house was empty. If this was what people were talking about when they referred to sex being one of the greatest ways to pass time, then Paul could agree wholeheartedly.

He wasn’t sure if he had ever felt this euphoric. His mind was slowly gathering itself again and he wondered about the intense feelings of jealousy and want he had just felt — the same emotions were greatly diminished now, although still present. The prickling feeling in his skin was still present, and he recognised it now — it was the need to get more of John, to see him again.

He shook his head slightly, trying to get rid of it, since now that he had already… had already _come_ at the thought of the man sleeping with him, shouldn’t his body calm down somewhat?

But John’s face was still hovering behind his eyelids, and Paul’s heartbeat didn’t slow down.

Was this normal, this consuming need? Or was there something wrong with Paul… how could he experience something like this towards John so quickly, without having felt anything of the like before?

…Oh, God…

…What if it was _love?_

What if Paul had fallen in love at first sight, and was mistaking this… want for actual love? Because… he was _unable_ to feel something sexually towards anyone. It was just _impossible,_ even though he had tried feeling it when he was younger. So… so… there had to be something in John then that had made all that happen, and… what else could it be but love?

He swallowed and his fingers shook a bit at the thought, his heart starting to thud heavily against his chest. Oh, dear, he was in love. Wasn’t love at first sight something people always talked about? The whole reason why John seemed to be so… perfect, and… oh God, all that had happened at the party, and afterwards, all of Paul’s reactions to John… it was because Paul was _in love._

He blinked slowly, unable to form a real coherent thought in this newfound realisation of his, his head already ringing something akin to wedding bells. _He was in love._

He was a romantic soul, even more so since he had to compensate his lack of sexuality somehow. He had dreamt about getting this feeling his whole life, and now that it was there… it was amazing, and he was ready to embrace it fully.

But he knew he needed to take it slowly, since he was understandably pretty new to the whole thought of even being with someone romantically… he just couldn’t waltz up to John and declare that he was in love with the man.

No, he needed to have a plan, become properly friends with John, and hope that he fell in love with Paul, too.

And now that he really gave it a thought, kissing John would definitely be a nice thing to try.

***~**~***

_16.11.1993_

“How can you find home when all the houses look the same, with your eyesight?” Paul asked while lying on John’s bed on his back, one hand crossed under his head, the other resting on his stomach. John turned to throw a glance at him from where he was looking through his records, his eyes raking over the boy’s body in what he hoped was a subtle way. His gaze stopped at the end of the bed, where his cat Gubbins was taking his 23-hour long nap, and then travelled back up.

“There’s a pub next door,” he said, returning to flipping through his cassette collection, trying to find some new music Paul wouldn’t have heard yet. The task had proved to be difficult, because even if Paul said he didn’t listen to that many artists _actively,_ he had still heard a little bit of everything, with his dad being a music teacher and all.

“We passed like, five of them!”

John laughed, nodding.

“That’s the Smithdown Road. All the students live ‘ere.”

“I know,” Paul said, and sighed. “I’d like to move here too, but I feel like it’s still too close to my parents. I need at least two miles between us.”

John chuckled at that, fully understanding that need.

“Yeah, Mum lives near the docks,” he said, pushing his glasses more firmly on his nose. Usually he avoided using them, but at home he didn’t feel the need to hide them, and besides… Paul had looked at him in a weirdly melting way when he had first seen them dangling on John’s nose, so maybe John would start carrying them around a bit more in the future. “Me aunt lives pretty close by, but she isn’t the type to drop by for a visit.”

“What about your da?” Paul’s voice drifted to his ears after a moment’s silence where the only sounds were John’s battered alarm clock ticking and muffled music that could be heard from the pub’s side of the room.

“Uh, he lives in Orrell, quite near to the Bootle Cemetery. That neighbourhood is as cheery as he is.”

“I take that that’s not a very positive thing,” Paul observed, and John shrugged. His dad was a bit of a particular case, seeming to have not one ounce of positivity in his soul. According to him, everything was shit from his job to his home, from his constantly changing girlfriends to John. John didn’t think about it much, and didn’t see him much either, but his dad had an awful habit of calling John pretty much on a weekly basis, drunk, and he excoriate him completely, starting from his smallest flaws to the “fact that he was just a queer with no future”.

Well, that was life, and John definitely didn’t want to think about that while showing his flat to Paul for the first time.

He finally dug up an album by the Pet Shop Boys and waved the cassette at Paul, who squinted at it in an attempt to make some sense of what the small moving object said. Eventually he nodded his consent, and John turned to put the cassette into his player, whistling to himself. Once that was done and the music blasted out way louder than what the small player should be able to produce, he got up and skipped over to the bed.

He sat down next to Paul, his eyes drawn to the boy in a magnetic way.

These past three weeks had been just painful. John wanted Paul _so_ much, and he was sure the lad knew it — but by now, after seeing each other almost every other day in a way that bordered obsession, John was well aware that Paul usually didn’t… do sex, so to speak. From what he’d seen, Paul was completely nonchalant when it came to reading porn magazines, even flinching away from them at times, and he hadn’t really sounded very enthusiastic about masturbating either when the subject had come up during one booze-filled evening. John hadn’t dared to cross the line to… to starting something with the lad, and Paul hadn’t done anything either.

It was clear to John that Paul liked him, too. There was enough blushing and staring going on that John had no real doubts about it. He was rather sure that whatever held Paul back, it was some sort of a switch in his head, and John would just have to figure out how to switch it to the ‘deflower John’ position.

It was frustrating, what it really was. John wanted nothing more than to be able to lie down next to Paul and kiss him, and then strip his amazing Nirvana shirt away and _look_ at him, but he just _couldn_ _’t_ be the one doing the first move. He wasn’t the type to take advantage on people who didn’t feel like having sex with him, and he certainly wasn’t going to do that to people he wanted to… well… frankly speaking, he wanted Paul to be _his,_ and moreover, _he_ wanted to belong to Paul. There was something in the young man that just made John’s heart drop between his kidneys, had him thinking about Paul’s smile in bed at nights, had him call the lad every day — even if Paul had already done so.

John _wanted_ Paul, in any way the lad could give, and if that meant living in a celibate, John was pretty much okay with it.

Maybe he should… maybe he should suggest it, then? Ask if Paul wanted to go out with him, properly like, and make it clear that no sex was required? It was a bummer, really, but John just wanted to— wanted to get _closer,_ and _closer,_ and hold Paul so tightly the lad could never leave. Paul wouldn’t oppose simple cuddling, would he? Every touch they exchanged felt like electricity in John’s fingertips — would hugging Paul give him a cardiac arrest from the electric shock it gave? He wanted to find out.

Heart running, he moved a bit more properly on the bed, his eyes unable to leave Paul’s face. For someone of his age, he was _gorgeous,_ and not at all awkward in a body that had already left the teenage years behind. Unlike George who was a walking stick with elephant ears, Paul’s body was balanced, his face perfectly crafted, and once again John craved to touch him, wondering if he really could date Paul without at least stealing a kiss or two every now and then. Maybe they could come to a compromise…

Lust and need thrummed in his veins and he sighed, turning his head away. They probably couldn’t… he probably couldn’t even suggest it. It was a good idea and all that, but… John was _used_ to having sex, having intimacy with whomever he dated. He couldn’t call Paul his boyfriend and just settle for a relationship where they remained friends above all. No, he needed the touch, and the cuddling, and the kissing, and the _sex,_ and Paul— Paul couldn’t give him those things, and it made John feel ugly in his stomach, nausea swirling in the pit of his abdomen in a way too familiar way. It wasn’t the first time John had these thoughts after having learnt about Paul’s… lack of sexuality, and he berated himself for giving himself a few seconds of false hope, of coming up with something as stupid as dating Paul without never being anything else but just friends.

He wasn’t sure what would be worst, though; that, or remaining as Paul’s close friends in the years to come, and possibly see him start dating somebody else.

His stomach lurched at the thought and he closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the music, but the thoughts wouldn’t leave him be. Usually they had been coming occasionally and separately during these three weeks, but it felt like a dam had opened now and all of them were pouring into John’s head at once. Maybe it was the fact that Paul was lying on his bed, and usually when John brought someone he wanted to his flat, it resulted in having _fun_ on the said bed. And now, when that was the thing he wanted _the most in his life_ at the moment, and it was irrevocably _not happening_ _…_

But Paul… Paul wanted him too. John _knew_ it! He was so sure of it — all those lingering gazes, the biting of his lower lip when John had made a show of eating ice cream, the hair in his arms standing up whenever John touched his skin, not matter how accidentally (although John had to admit it was always on purpose)… and the way Paul watched him, his dark eyes burying themselves into John’s neck when he thought John wasn’t aware of it… Paul was _always_ watching John, no matter what John did.

Now, too, John could feel his gaze burning his spine, and frustration danced in his chest, making him want to swear and throw something across the room. Goddammit — why wouldn’t Paul just _admit_ to himself that he wanted John, too?!

“Hey John,” Paul’s voice shot through the music surrounding them and John twitched, having been completely absorbed by his thoughts. He made sure his face was masked into a cool and friendly indifference before he turned to face Paul, who had moved both of his hands behind his neck. John couldn’t help but let his eyes drag over Paul’s accentuated chest, his mouth quite literally watering at the sight.

“Yeah?” he managed to utter out, hating the situation, and _hating_ his bloody sex drive that was out of the roof by now, with him having done pretty much nothing but wank at the thought of Paul for the past three weeks. But he had decided not to sleep with anyone before he could either have Paul, or his interest in the lad disappeared… he had thought for it to take about a week. Never had he thought he’d be basically starving for Paul for the weeks to _come,_ without the situation changing at all in any direction.

“You got any pot in here?” Paul asked and raised one of his beautifully arched eyebrows. John frowned in wonder, raking his brain through the haze Paul’s face created in his mind.

“I might have some… hang on, I’ll check Stu’s room.”

The flat he lived in was shared by two other people — Stuart Sutcliffe and Pete Shotton, who were fortunately also marvellous friends. Pete worked in a grocery store owned by his dad, and Stuart was an art student at John Moores like John — only a _lot_ better, and in the fine arts branch, whereas John studied graphic design and illustration specifically. Stuart _also_ happened to be his best friend, although lately John had been neglecting him in an order to spend more time with Paul, which the man didn’t seem to mind at all; it gave him more time for doing actual art, and just told John he needed to get laid. To which John agreed wholeheartedly.

Now he left Paul lying on the bed and walked to the opposite door to his, peeping into Stu’s room without bothering to knock.

He found the man completely absorbed by an art history book. Ugh, disgusting, he was studying on his free time as well. In John’s opinion, all that mattered was that he knew how to draw. Whatever Da Vinci had done in the past wasn’t relevant to him at all.

“D’ye happen to have any pot?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. Stuart looked up from his book, frowning at the question.

“Yeah, for one go.”

“Pete wouldn’t have any, do you think?”

Stuart thought about it for a moment, then shook his head.

“I think he used it all last weekend. I was gonna see Robert tomorrow.”

“The only thing that eases my mind on being a complete pothead is that Robert will always be worse,” John chuckled and shook his head, entering the room to go for Stuart’s not-so-secret-pot-stash. If Paul wanted pot, John was sure as hell ready to go all the way to the unknown land of Wirral to fetch it from Robert himself.

Stuart regarded him in silence for a while, and then talked in a hushed tone.

“Still no luck?”

John sighed, not even in the mood to joke about it. He was quickly starting to feel miserable about the whole “knowing Paul” -thing.

“Nah,” he said, pulling out a small bag that did indeed contain enough for one joint. Hmm. It seemed that John was gonna be left without, then. “I’m not sure if he jus’ needs time or if I’m wasting my time ‘ere.”

Stuart pressed his lips tightly together, eyes flicking down to John’s hands, and moreover, to the bag.

“Don’t give up,” he said, sounding sympathetic. “You know Amy? She waited for this one guy to notice her for six months, and then he finally picked up the courage to ask her out.”

“Yeah,” John muttered, barking out a humourless laugh. “Then they dated for three weeks and broke up.”

Stuart shrugged, muttering “irrelevant”. John sighed again and shook his head slightly, staring at the pot in his hands.

“He’s a dope lad,” he said. “Carin’ an’ all, and funny. And he has a killer taste in music — I should be happy jus’ with ‘im as me mate.”

Stuart didn’t answer, only stared at him for a moment before lifting the book back up, and John exited the room with his stomach churning with want and anger at having found his perfect partner, only for it to be impossible for them to be together.

He found Paul flipping through a gay magazine, humming along with the music. As John entered the room he put the magazine down on his stomach and raised an eyebrow.

“Any luck?” he asked, and John waved the small bag in the air.

“There’s only for one joint, though,” he said, and Paul frowned at that, his lips pressing tightly together in what was almost a pout.

“That’s a drag.”

“Yeah,” John laughed, “that’s literally just a drag.”

They both chuckled, and John proceeded to look for rolling paper to prepare a joint for Paul. It was the least he could do, and maybe John being generous was a turn-on for Paul? Who knew.

He quickly and expertly rolled the joint, shaping it into a cone so that it burned better, and flipped around to present it to Paul.

“Tadah!” he grinned. “One high-quality joint coming up for mister, right away! Let’s get blazed!”

Paul laughed, sitting up on the bed. The magazine fell between his legs to cover his crotch, and John definitely _didn_ _’t look that way_ briefly before jumping over, offering the joint to Paul. Their fingers touched when the lad took it from him, and John felt a shudder in his spine. God, he knew that he’d be wanking himself sore tonight.

He dug up a lighter from his pocket and started reaching forward to light up the joint. Paul, however, pulled it further away, looking at him with a frown.

“You don’t have any,” he said, sounding severely displeased with the thought. John shrugged, unable to stop a grimace forming on his face.

“We’re gonna get more in a couple of days. This is all that’s in this house, unless you count the history students in the downstairs flat, and they only use it in the 60’s parties they hold every month.”

“Mmh,” Paul’s mouth twisted, and he really looked chagrined about the aspect of John remaining potless.

John crawled on the bed, minding Gubbins who hadn’t moved an inch (he suspected the cat never actually slept, but fell into a coma instead, and then just woke up from it for the evening food before going back to it), and sat on his heels, putting on a “what can you do about it” -face.

And then Paul looked at the joint, and at John, and at the joint again, and suddenly his gaze was _smoldering,_ burning through John’s very soul as the lad looked back up at him through his eyelashes, giving him the same look as in the party before that brat by the name George interrupted then (and John had been _so_ sure that that would’ve been it, that would’ve been the kiss, and Paul would’ve been _his_ — but the interruption had closed something in Paul, and he had kept his distance ever since… God, John did resent George for that, even though he was a good, if not small lad otherwise)…

And Paul lifted the joint, arching a questioning, graceful eyebrow.

“Why don’t we… shotgun it then?” he said, the words dripping from his lips like syrup on top of a thick, warm pancake, and John’s mouth dried in _that instant._

“Sh-sh-shotgun it?” he managed to utter out, his jaw going slack. Paul was still giving him _that_ look, and he _must_ have been aware of what it looked like — of what it did to John. A small smirk seemed to be tugging at the corner of his mouth, and John’s gaze fell down to his lips. Was Paul _seriously_ suggesting that they… they shotgun the joint?

“Yeah,” Paul said lazily, turning the joint in his fingers idly. John looked at him, and looked _deeper,_ and then he saw it — Paul was trying to look nonchalant, but his fingers were shaking a little, and underneath the dark gaze directed at John he was nervous, slightly hesitant and maybe even a bit afraid as well… of rejection, or of John actually accepting, John couldn’t say, but…

_Paul had offered, and made the first move._

“S-sure,” John said, his throat like sandpaper, his stomach suddenly starting to perform cartwheels. Oh, God, was this really happening? If this was a dream, John was ready to join his cat in a coma for the rest of his life to keep it going.

He shifted closer so that he was sitting just inches away from Paul at an easy reach. With slightly shaky fingers he lifted his hand and flicked the lighter, Paul holding the joint on top of the flame. John could see his fingers clearly shaking now as well, and wondered whether he should decline the offer.

“You done it before?” Paul asked, and now there was a tremor in his voice as well. His gaze was intense as it drilled into John’s, and John nodded slowly as the joint lit up.

“You?” he asked, and Paul shook his head, eyes never leaving John’s.

“You can either, um, create a tunnel by cupping your hands like this,” John cupped his hands around his mouth, Paul’s gaze dropping down to his lips, “or… well, you can pass it from mouth to mouth.”

“I’ve seen it done,” Paul said, voice only a breath, now. “Doesn’t look really complicated.”

“Just remember to hold the smoke in yer mouth for enough time before you pass it on,” John said, thinking that they would probably go for the hand tunnel. Paul hadn’t commented on the manner of shotgunning at all, so… it would probably be the version usually used by friends.

Paul nodded, looking at the joint. Then, (without John being mentally ready _at all)_ he exhaled deeply, brought it to his lips and breathed in deeply, keeping his gaze on John. He raised on eyebrow as if to ask whether John was ready (he _wasn_ _’t)_ and then…

His hand shot up and curled against John’s shirt, and John managed to catch a glimpse of burning determination in Paul’s eyes before he was pulled in.

His lips parted by reflex and he gasped, Paul’s mouth colliding with him surprisingly softly. Smoke poured in and down his throat, but the way it burned his insides was nothing compared to the way his whole body seemed to explode, every inch of his skin responding to the feeling of Paul’s mouth against his.

Paul’s hand clutched at his shirt, keeping him in place, and then — then, Paul’s lips started moving, slowly, and he _was kissing John,_ properly, his mouth wetting John’s lips, and through the blood roaring in his ears John could hear a distant moan escape from the boy’s mouth. He echoed it back, a sort of a small, desperate sound that seemed to radiate with all the longing and want he had been feeling for the past three weeks, and he felt Paul’s lips curl into a smile before the lad pulled back, gasping.

John sucked in a breath and started coughing, the smoke burning his lungs in a way that was anything but unpleasant. Paul’s hand held still held onto his shirt, and after the worst coughs had gone, John lifted his head and opened his eyes.

Paul stared at him, his face red like a tomato, and upon meeting John’s helpless gaze he leaned to place the joint onto John’s bedside table…

…before grabbing him by the head and pulling him in for a proper kiss, mouth sliding against John’s, and John surrendered completely to the young man, only able to helplessly kiss back in what he hoped was a sufficiently impressing way.

Paul didn’t go home that night, and the next day John took him on a date.

And neither of them could stop grinning for the rest of the week.

***~**~***

_17.12.1993_

Paul threw his back bag next to John’s where it was lying on the floor and threw himself on the man’s bed, stretching with a content yawn. Gubbins meowed a sleepy greeting from where he was sleeping on John’s office table, and then went back to the coma.

“A whole weekend!” Paul yelled towards the ceiling, making John laugh, who had entered the room behind him, a guitar hanging from his shoulder like always. “No parents! No friends! No Pete banging in in the middle of blowjobs!”

John laughed more at that and came closer, and Paul had time to squeak before the man’s weight dropped on top of him. Air escaped Paul’s lungs and he huffed and puffed for a moment while John was lifting himself up on his elbows.

“Right,” he grinned down at Paul, his hair flowing down and tickling Paul’s face in a familiar, comforting touch. “Only you, bothering me an’ Gubbins’ antisocial weekend.”

Paul jabbed him in the ribs and John let out a dramatic moan, shaking his head.

“Not fair,” he whined, but chuckled right after, and Paul grinned up at him with his heart feeling ridiculously full.

“You know what’s not fair? How you’ve been hovering above me for a good minute already, and haven’t even molested me mouth yet,” he said, and John raised an eyebrow.

“Why, you’re needy today,” he said, and leaned down to kiss Paul with a smile on his lips.

It soon evolved into a full snogging contest, the liberating feeling of being able to spend the whole weekend together without anyone butting in exhilarating to the both of them. Stuart had gone to visit his grandparents with the rest of his family; Pete would be spending the weekend at his girlfriends’ place… and so Paul had announced at home that he’d be at John’s place for the whole weekend, having only met a couple of raised eyebrows as a response.

He had said that they’d be mostly listening to music and having fun together — and he hadn’t been lying. They _were_ having fun together.

Paul soon rolled them over so that he was straddling John’s lap, starting to work John’s loose t-shirt off. It didn’t take much persuasion, nor much work, since the baggy clothes just basically fell off his slim figure. Paul barely managed to throw John’s t-shirt away before John flipped them over again and Paul laughed into his mouth, fingers entwining behind John’s neck to keep his head in place.

“Are you still okay if we go with it?” John asked a bit breathlessly when Paul finally let him pull away, starting to pester John’s cheeks with small pecks instead.

“Yeah — I — of course—” Paul said between the kisses, and John chuckled, somehow able to wriggle his hands down to Paul’s belt, despite him being in a quite literal body lock.

Now that the only necessary words during the weekend — aside from gasping out the other’s name — had been uttered, Paul pulled John’s mouth back to his and settled for discovering whether he could really eat the man’s face off. John’s hands pulled at his fly, and soon Paul felt the freedom that one could only experience when getting rid of hot jeans.

“Hang on—” John gasped, “I’ll just throw Gubbins out.”

Paul nodded with laughter, and John did just that — the cat didn’t even wake up when John quickly went to put him on the couch — and then they returned to their previous task of taking off all the offending clothing while trying to keep their mouths together as much as possible.

It started like any other time they had sex; they laughed together, truly unable to keep their mouths off of each other, hands either roaming all over the place or holding the other, so that there wouldn’t be any distance between them at all. But today… the rest would be different.

They had already decided on it quite some time ago, or, like always when it came to taking their relationship to the next level, Paul had suggested it, and John had asked with wide eyes whether it was really okay, and Paul had spent fifteen minutes assuring his boyfriend that yes, Paul wanted it, _really_ wanted it, and dreamt about it at nights, and wanked at the thought of it. It was always the last sentence that really convinced John.

Paul had to admit to being a bit nervous. But then again, he had been nervous about their first kiss, too, and now he couldn’t bear the thought of staying away from John’s mouth. It had been the same when he had wanted John to touch him, or when they had actually started taking off their clothes. Paul _wanted_ it all, and wanted to give himself to John, and wanted to have all of John in return, and after the first few weeks of dating most of his doubts had disappeared… now he just blamed his nervousness on the lack of experience.

Fortunately, John had enough to share, and it was on that base that John had told Paul to top first.

 _‘I know how it’s like to do both,’_ he had said when they had been sitting under a tree in the Chavasse Park last week, freezing their arses off in the coldness of December; it was an ideal place to have this discussion though, because at this weather no one wanted to go to a park, and so it was far more private than any pub, alley, or bedroom. _‘So it’s better if you start with topping.’_

 _‘What if I never want to… to bottom?’_ Paul had wondered, worried that John would dislike the inequality in the thought, since the man clearly liked to top as well.

 _‘Don’t worry,’_ John had shrugged with a smirk. _‘I’m sure your insatiable curiosity gets there first.’_

Paul had laughed and wholeheartedly agreed, because now that he had discovered this new sexual side of himself, he really wanted to try _everything,_ as long as it was with John. They had dared to change one small peck on the lips before heading to Paul’s place to melt together in front of the television.

So now… Paul knew how things worked in theory, John having gone through it several times with him to make sure he felt comfortable with it and was feeling confident in what they were about to do, and now all that was left was to actually act on it. And Paul was more than fine with that.

He was just in the process of taking off John’s jeans when John’s slightly breathless voice piped up.

“Y’know, this is the worst moment to say this, and the worst thing for this to happen, really, but _Rape Me_ is playing in me head, and I can’t get it off. ‘Cos I listened to it this morning.”

Paul stopped dragging John’s trousers down right at that moment, and started shaking with laughter.

“No! You can’t be serious!” he whined through the laughter. “That _so_ is a complete mood-killer!”

“Sorryyy,” John moaned, shaking his head vigorously. “But it’s not leaving…”

“Maybe if we put a record on?” Paul suggested, and John had barely managed to nod before Paul was out of the bed, padding over to John’s records in his underwear. He could hear John finishing the job of getting rid of all extra clothing and couldn’t help the ever-present grin on his face.

He dug through the records for a while before fishing out one that he _knew_ was perfect.

“Hey… what about this?” he asked, a devious smirk on his face as he turned to wave the LP at John. John stared at it, narrowed his eyes in an attempt to see better, and then started slowly shaking his head.

“I know that cover… That blue — and is that big pink thing in the middle a face? It’s _In Love With Elvis,_ isn’t it? Which I’m not, for the record. I just got it free from the Heritage market along another record.”

Paul started laughing, digging the record out of the sleeve. John groaned and fell against the bed, starting to wave his arms and legs around.

 _“That’s_ not fair! I can’t possibly give you a good fuck while Elvis is crooning his love for me right into me ear! That’s the worst record to be listening to while… _Paul!_ _”_

Paul, still laughing, placed the needle of the old record player on the LP, and Elvis indeed started crooning _Love Me Tender_ right away. Paul, now in the middle of a real hysterical laughing fit, turned back to John, who just looked outright suffering.

 _“Take me to your heart—”_ Paul started singing along when the second verse began, but didn’t get very far before John threw a pillow at his face.

“You wanker! Ugh! How can I concentrate on your face when all I can think is Elvis breathing heavily right next to the bed!” John exclaimed, and Paul finally made it to the bed, breathless from laughter.

But by the time _Love Me Tender_ came to its end and _Loving You_ started, Paul and John had switched the laughter to a deep snog.

There was something weirdly sensual in having proper, _proper_ sex for the first time in the rhythm of Elvis. Paul had never really listened to any of his records, the music being frankly too old to his tastes, but it made him succumb into a strange mood where every touch seemed to mean more than it usually would, and how each and every one of John’s kisses made his toes curl.

He wasn’t sure what he should have expected from the whole “stick your finger inside your boyfriend’s arse”, but to his surprise, he wasn’t very bothered when actually faced with the task. John had wanted to lay on his stomach, saying that since it had been such a long time for him as well, it would probably be better this way. Paul, who was the last person to want to hurt John, took his time preparing the man, watching with wide eyes as his finger disappeared inside him.

 _Don_ _’t Be Cruel_ started playing just as he was thinking of adding another finger, and found that the music actually helped him control his nerves. John hummed along to the music until his hums turned into moans, the sounds travelling straight to Paul’s abdomen and staying there, creating general chaos in the form of twisting and burning.

“Are you ready?” Paul asked after he had watched John twist and pant on the bed for the total amount of two songs, his arse sticking out to Paul in a way that made hot tremors flush through his body.

“Uhhuh,” John answered, nodding vigorously. He was tightly hugging a pillow he had placed under his chest, and then he turned his head to look at Paul, his eyes holding a soft, trusting look.

“Just go for it. You won’t be ready for the feeling,” he grinned, and Paul gave him a wide, if not slightly shaky smile. He knew that John knew what he was talking about, and that John had assured him that it would be fine and that Paul would catch on quickly — but he was still feeling nervous. John’s ultimate trust in him felt funny and undeserved, seeing as Paul had never _done_ anything like this… if one didn’t count thrusting in John’s hand.

He swallowed his nerves, knowing that John was waiting impatiently. He coated the condom that was covering his painfully hard erection with lube, shuddering at the feeling, and right at that moment the song changed.

 _“Are you lonesome tonight—”_ Elvis wailed into the pregnant silence.

“No!” John yelled, causing Paul to fall against him with uncontrollable laughter. John joined in with him, and it took them longer than what was appropriate to gather themselves again. John sniffed and huffed against the pillow, and Paul placed his hands on the man’s hips. It was now or never, and John wriggled slightly under him, sticking his arse out so that Paul had better access to it, and God… Paul’s brain cells were burning and dropping off one by one.

He just had to _trust_ John in this.

With a deep inhale, he started pushing in.

And found that he would never, _ever_ be able to continue his life without having this feeling at least once a week. So much for his celibacy, then.

He started up a slow rhythm, John groaning under him in slight discomfort. Paul did his best to ease into it gently, running his fingers up and down John’s sides and ghosting his fingertips over John’s back.

“Aw, fuck!” John yelled out of a sudden, his body shivering under Paul, and Paul deduced he had found John’s prostate. Pleasure coursed through him just at the thought alone, to John finding the act satisfying.

Just to be sure he had indeed found John’s spot aimed his next, slightly sloppy thrust into the same place — and John moaned harder, his hands grabbing at the pillow tighter, and Paul was left staring at him in wonder, not sure whether the tightness that was clutching his chest came from pleasure, or something else.

 _Can_ _’t Help Falling In Love_ came on just as Paul started figuring out how to speed up with his thrusts while still hitting John’s prostate. He leaned forward and let his mouth connect with John’s shoulder, not able to stop himself from nuzzling it gently before kissing the sweaty skin under his lips. John turned his head almost automatically, gasps and moans escaping his mouth with every thrust, and his gaze was blurred, eyelids fighting to stay up.

Paul dragged his mouth up and caught John’s lips against his, John’s breath coming to meet his face with a sharp, slightly prickling feeling.

“Alright?” he asked, his voice raspy and low, his tone unlike anything he had heard coming out from his mouth. It made him blink, and John shuddered under him, nodding. Then the man turned his head as far over his shoulder as it could go, searching for another kiss, his expression caring and full of need.

“Best— sex— I’ve— had—” he then gasped, moving his hips slightly, his body responding to Paul’s thrusts. Paul inhaled sharply, and couldn’t help but kiss John once again, groaning openly into his mouth.

“S-same,” he breathed against John’s lips, and another laughter fit took over. He buried his head into John’s shoulder, feeling it shake under him with the man’s giggles, and couldn’t help but start kissing at the salty skin again, quickly growing addicted to the taste.

“I’m fl-fl-flattered — _Jesus,_ _”_ John’s words ended in a moan, and Paul’s stomach twisted. He wished he had a recording machine, so that he could listen to that sound all day; John’s words that were partly laughed out, partly uttered in a desperate groan, and Paul found that sound to become his favourite of All Sounds John. He thought he’d remember this moment for the rest of his life, and was happy they hadn’t even drank alcohol. He wanted to hold onto every detail of John trashing under him like that.

He knew John was coming three seconds before it happened. The man’s body tightened all of a sudden, his hands squeezing into fists, and with a long, throaty moan he started shaking, the warm tightness around Paul’s dick increasing in a way that had him seeing stars. He stopped his thrusts to watch, mesmerised by the fact that _he_ had done that, _he_ was the one who had got that sound out of John, and his chest tightened at the sight, warmth rushing into the pit of his stomach.

He let out one, soft sigh, accompanied by John’s name, and came, the feeling and the sounds too much, the thought of what John had just given him overwhelming him, and the contradictions in his abdomen seemed to last for hours, his mind wiped empty.

They lay in bed afterwards, just breathing the same air. John was on his stomach and Paul on his back, and their gazes were locked to each other, the outside world having faded away. The record had stopped playing, spinning with the needle in the middle, making scratchy sounds.

Then John leaned forward and caught his lower lip between his teeth, gently tugging at it before moving in for a full kiss, softly pressing his slightly opened mouth against Paul’s in a slow and tranquil way. Paul responded in kind, shifting closer to get better access to John’s thin lips, the man’s stubble scratching against his jaw, and nothing had ever felt better than this shared moment. Paul swore to hold onto it, to never forget this feeling of fulfilment that had taken over his body.

They parted slowly and grinned at each other before Paul leaned in for another kiss, wondering how long John needed to recover before another possible go.

Then again… they were in no hurry.

They had the whole weekend, after all.

***~**~***

_10.3.1994_

Paul liked a girl in his class.

Just like that, he had started liking her. _In the same way he liked John._ It had begun one morning, without any kind of a warning whatsoever, when Paul had once again sat next to her in the lecture hall, and she had smiled up at him like always.

Laura was petite and cute, with hair golden like honey that was styled just like Courtney Love’s. She looked a bit like her too, which had originally caught Paul’s eye at the beginning of the year. She wore flannel like a second skin and always applied bright red lipstick while listening to the morning lecture.

She was funny, too, their lunch group nearing hysterics almost every time with her impressions about the teachers. She had wanted to study theatre, but had thought that by doing a degree in English instead she would have a backup plan, in case she never made it in the world of acting.

Paul liked her, and had never felt _worse._

He had thought to be solely John’s. He had _trusted_ himself to like only John. He felt like he was already cheating on John by letting his eyes travel over Laura’s figure as she raised her hand up in a question, or when his heart beat a little too fast whenever she smiled at him. Whenever he was with John, Laura was completely forgotten, but the moment the next day at uni started, Paul’s gaze was drawn to her again.

He was afraid. What if this meant that he was losing his interest in John? John wasn’t the most consuming thought in his head anymore, more like a small, constant presence in the back of his mind that always made him smile when he thought about it, but he didn’t _actively_ think about John during every second of the day.

What if he was falling in love with Laura, the same way he had fallen for John? What would he do then? He _couldn_ _’t_ leave John, the thought was just unbearable, but _could_ he be in a relationship where he cheated his partner every time he spent a lecture with her?

Paul didn’t know what to do, and so he voiced his fears to George one afternoon at the lad’s place, almost on the verge of tears at thinking that John would be so _hurt_ if he heard, that he would think Paul disloyal and a cheating bastard, and would break things off.

“So, let me get this straight,” George said with a sigh, rubbing his eyes with one hand. Paul was lying on his bed with fingers tightly entwined on top of his stomach, and George sat at his feet, skinny legs crossed and a guitar in his lap; Paul had just poured everything out in one, big wave in the middle of a jamming session, where Paul had listened and George hadn’t probably even remembered he was still present — so deep into his playing the lad had been.

“Ye think ye’re in love with this gal,” George continued, somehow looking old and weary all of a sudden. “‘Cos she looks a bit like Courtney Love.”

“No! That’s just one of the qualities,” Paul started, but George glared at him, and he shut up.

“An’ ye think that John will leave ye if he hears.”

Paul, who was able to imagine it all happening very vividly in his very imaginative brain, started crying at the thought.

“Oh, bollocks,” he heard George sigh and let out a small, muffled sob, bringing a hand to his mouth.

“I don’t want ‘im to leave me,” he cried, and George groaned in frustration.

“Paul, have ye thought that maybe it’s just _sexual attraction?_ Where did ye get the thought of bein’ in love??”

Paul’s sobs died down just as quickly as they had come, some sort of a shock entering his body.

“But…” he lifted his head to look at George with a bewildered, tearful gaze. “But… I _can_ _’t_ feel sexual attraction! You know that!”

“Beards, Paul!” George scratched his chin with raised eyebrows. “What about when ye met John?”

Paul huffed angrily, wondering if he had to explain that it _hadn_ _’t_ been sexual attraction… he had _liked_ John, and had wanted to spend more time with him, and had wanted to touch him, and had wanted John’s warmth, and wit, and laughter, and…

“Oh God. Was it just sexual attraction?” he said, his mind going completely blank. Could it… could it _really_ have been… and then…

“I mean, ye sure as hell weren’t in love with ‘im back then!” George lowered his guitar on the floor in an order to cross his arms over his chest, looking very, very annoyed with Paul and his stupid thoughts. “So what ye’re feelin’ now is attraction, not love! An’ maybe ye like ‘er, okay, but do ye like ‘er like ye like _John?_ _”_

Paul was quiet and thought about it, searching for that feeling in his stomach he got when he saw Laura. It was the sort of want that drew his gaze to her and made him want to be closer to her, and when he thought about it, he wouldn’t have minded sex with her either… except that he had John, and would have minded the sex _very much._ But the thought of John was the only thing on the way, and had he not been in Paul’s life…

And then he thought about John, and just like always he felt his chest expand in a familiar way, warmth pouring in, his lips twitching with an unstoppable smile. He thought about John’s grin, and about his nasal voice that could so often be associated with a joke that had Paul laughing in stitches, and about the way John snuggled closer to him in his sleep, sighing against Paul’s collarbone — and he found that the feelings didn’t compare _at all._

Slowly, feeling something ugly — like relieved sobbing — swirl in his chest, he shook his head.

“Nuhhuh,” he said, swallowing. He wanted to get to John as quickly as possible, and felt like it was time to say goodbye to George. “Not at all.”

“There you go! So ye’re not cheatin’ on John, it’s totally normal to feel attraction towards other people than the one ye’re datin’ at the moment, he _definitely_ won’t leave you, an’ for _God_ _’s sake,_ stop _crying!_ _”_ George more or less yelled at him when Paul started blubbering again, and then suddenly laughter broke through his tears, and he was coughing and sobbing and laughing at the same time, relief overwhelming his body.

“Seriously — I can’t concentrate — ugh!” George jumped up from the bed, standing next to the bed and hovering above Paul with hands on his hips. “Listen… as long as yer feelings towards John are stronger than towards anyone else, ye’re fine, okay? Everyone feels sometimes attraction towards other people, but what really counts is how ye feel towards _‘im.”_

Paul nodded, and laughed, and cried, and was out of the house twenty minutes later, ready to surprise John with a long, deep kiss right in the man’s doorway.

A week later, Paul didn’t feel a thing except for friendly fondness for Laura, and he had never felt more in love with John. Because _now_ he knew that it was truly love — he had thought to have been in love with John all along, from the very first moment, but now he recognised the feeling to be infinitely less than what he was feeling _now._ _Now_ he was in love, with all of John, from his laughter to his flaws, and he had never felt better.

***~**~***

_28.3.1994_

They were spending the afternoon in a way they liked best; together. John was lying on his back between Paul’s legs, a book about art history propped against Paul’s conveniently folded knees, a pillow between Paul’s stomach and his head. Paul had propped pillows between the wall and his back, the soft mattress of John’s bed swallowing them both in a calm and unhurried way. Gubbins was once again sleeping at the foot of the bed, peacefully snoring in a way that had had John cooing for ten minutes before he opened his book.

Paul was reading through King Lear for a course at uni where the main aim was to read pretty much all of Shakespeare’s works, and then do a bunch of analysing, and hopefully manage to attain an ability to “relate the plays to their literary, cultural, and historical contexts” and “to structure a coherent and critically informed analysis of selected texts and specific passages and scenes”. Paul was sure it was less complicated than what it sounded like, and so far he had enjoyed the course. Shakespeare was his favourite, after all, no matter how cliche saying it was.

To compensate his knees being used as a reading stand, the small book containing the play was resting on top of John’s head. John didn’t mind at all, and the only way Paul had managed to get him do his reading homework was to let the man use him as a pillow. Not that he minded either — the way their bodies fit together perfectly just made him sure of the fact that they were made for each other.

Occasionally Paul’s fingers would wind themselves in John’s hair, softly caressing his scalp before returning to hold the play, and John’s hands that were resting against Paul’s thighs to hold the book would move, so that he could trace one or two fingers against the rough denim of Paul’s jeans. The overall atmosphere was tranquil and warm, the only sounds being one of them turning the page and Gubbins snoring, their shared bubble bringing safety and privacy.

It was that bubble that had John lower the heavy book on top of his stomach, glancing up at the play he could see peeping over his forehead. Paul was completely absorbed by it, and John softly nudged at his knee with an elbow.

“Hey, Paul,” he started, and Paul hummed, eyes not yet leaving the text. “There’s something I gotta say.”

Paul moved the play away at that, looking at him with a questioning raise of an eyebrow. John gave him a small grin, shifting so that he could see Paul’s face a bit better despite him being upside down.

“I really think I love you a little,” he said, blush starting to creep up to his cheeks.

Paul stared at him, and dropped the play from his hands.

“But—” John continued hurriedly, “—you don’t need to say it back, if— if that’s not how ye feel… I just had to get it out—”

“Idiot,” Paul interrupted him, his face turning red as well, a fond smile rising to his lips. “You idiot — I love you too.”

And suddenly they were scrambling to get rid of the books and the pillows. Paul pulled John into a kiss that was just as gentle and safe as their bubble, and John repeated those words again and again, breathing them into Paul’s mouth and straight into his heart.

“I’ve done all along,” Paul said, voice muffled by the kiss, and John barked a laugh, hauling the both of them down on the bed so that he could wrap his arms around Paul and _hold him,_ tighter and longer than ever before, without ever letting go.

“Of course ye have,” he chuckled, and Paul laughed against his lips, his heart slotting against John’s just as perfectly as his body did.

***~**~***

_28.5.1994_

“I still don’t get it,” George said with his voice made thick by alcohol, as John was taking another long swig of his third beer, an almost finished joint hanging limply between his fingers. “Ye’re datin’ Paul, an’ ye still say ye’re bi.”

“Yyeah,” John nodded, slouching deeper into the armchair. Paul lay on the couch, listening with half an ear to the discussion, and with the other to Kurt Cobain’s raspy voice that filled the lounge in John’s flat. Melancholy shot through his chest at every word; he still couldn’t quite believe it, even if it had been almost two months of the man’s death. He had… he had had so much more to give to the world, and then… Paul couldn’t understand why someone would want to kill themselves, especially when that someone had been so important to so many people.

He knew he would remember it for the rest of his life, walking up the stairs to John’s flat, unlocking the door with his key, and finding John crying on his bed. And then hearing… hearing about it, and—

Paul had taken John to his place then, and Mary, his mum had made them both hot chocolate while they watched the news, eyes filled with tears, and then later on they had held each other for the whole night, and John had just repeated the words “I don’t understand” over and over again.

Paul had been unable to say anything.

A month later John cut his hair and shaved his stubble, saying that he didn’t want new acquaintances to take a look at him and say “oh… you like Nirvana” in a pitying, sad voice. His new style suited him well and Paul had already got used to it, but… he still missed the feeling of John’s stubble scratching against his skin, of his long hair falling on Paul’s face when they…

Paul had a feeling John was disappointed in his idol, more than anything else. And Paul was, too; he didn’t understand why Kurt had wanted to do it, why he had decided to be so selfish. Maybe he would understand one day, but for now he just felt sadness, and bitterness, and disappointment towards his former God.

“But wouldn’t that make ye gay?” George’s voice penetrated his ears again and he turned his head slightly, a sigh escaping his mouth. George just didn’t give up, and this particular subject was sure to make John’s hackles rise.

 _“No,_ I’ve said a million times…” John huffed, waving his beer bottle in the air. It wouldn’t take long for him to be out like a light; despite what everyone thought, John was a hell of a lightweight.

“But… are ye sure ye’re not jus’ confused a bit?”

“For Christ’s sake, George!” John exclaimed, almost dropping his joint to the floor. “It’s not about confusion, or whatever shit term ye wanna use — it’s only that I find _both_ men _and_ women attractive! Bloody spaceman…”

There was a moment’s silence where John stared sulkily into space, and George was frowning at his beer bottle. Paul knew he didn’t mean to hurt John, but only tried to understand what it was like for the man… although he did it in a way Paul didn’t support either. He said nothing though, knowing that John might have lashed out at him as well at the moment. When drunk and irritated the man had no inhibitions at letting his tongue loose. Although to be frank, in these days it never went further than “shut up, McCartney” when it came Paul.

Paul, not having been one to support John’s drunken fits no more than John was ready to support George’s idiotic questions, usually silenced the man with one look, and later on received an armful of shameful, miserable, and apologetic Lennon. John always said it was because of his dad being a really bad influence on him, and that he was battling to get away from it. And Paul listened, and said that John was doing better all the time, and that John didn’t _need_ to insult Paul in an order to get what he wanted, and so little by little John’s drunken insults had become less cutting, and Paul fell in love with him deeper and deeper as the days passed.

John was a handful, that was for sure, once the first heaven-like feeling of getting to know him had passed and Paul started to see deeper into John’s personality and actions, but… the man always tried making himself better. He did his best, trying to be the boyfriend he said Paul deserved, and that was already enough for Paul to never want to let go of him. Now that they had been dating for eight months already, they had fallen into a comfortable routine where every moment together was appreciated, and if this was what being in love was, Paul was ready to spend the rest of his life being in love with John.

“I don’t see how— so ye still find girls attractive when ye’re with Paul? Can’t ye jus’ settle for one gender?” George said, and Paul was pretty sure that the only reason why John wasn’t up on his feet and yelling at the boy was that he was so drunk. _And_ at the moment he was still in a rather high mood… literally.

Paul, however, winced at George’s words and decided he needed to talk with the lad later. This just wouldn’t do. Paul should’ve acted a lot sooner on explaining things properly, but… it had just never come up in the conversation between the two of them.

“George, I’m gonna kick you out if you go any further,” John said, his voice sounding exhausted, and he lifted a hand to rub his eyes with his palm, careful not to stick the joint into his eye. “Jesus, can’t even trust me friends.”

***~**~***

“George, you gotta understand,” Paul said in a tired voice an hour later, still lying on the couch. John was lying on top of him, slotted between Paul’s legs, his head pressing as a comfortable weight against Paul’s stomach. He was fast asleep, light huffs escaping his mouth with every exhale, and Paul knew he wouldn’t wake even if a bomb was dropped on the house. “It’s… bisexuality is still somewhat greatly misunderstood. It’s a sore point for him, ‘cos he always has to fight for people to accept him as he is.”

“I don’t… I don’t wanna hurt ‘im, but I don’t get it at all, like,” George said softly, turning an empty beer bottle in his hands, watching John’s sleeping face with a frustrated expression. Gubbins had crawled into his lap at some point of the evening, fallen asleep, and now George couldn’t move from the armchair. Served him right, and this way he couldn’t escape the conversation with Paul. “I don’t understand how he can like _both_ genders.”

“He jus’ does,” Paul said. “I don’t understand how I can only like _John_ in general.”

“That’s… a rather fair point, ‘specially knowin’ John” George admitted, looking thoughtful. “It’s different though, ‘cos ye’re _you,_ and John’s… the Campus Casanova. Although he seems to ‘ave settled for ye now… for now,” he grimaced, and Paul sighed. He couldn’t help but agree a bit on that — in his heart there lived a tiny fear of a day coming when John said that he’d had enough, and wanted to go back to sleeping with pretty much everyone. He tried not to listen to the voices whispering about that in his ear, though, because he knew John was loyal to him, and loved him, and wanted to spend his time with Paul rather than go out with anyone else.

Paul just had to trust him, and wasn’t that what it was all about? Good relationships were based on mutual trust, and Paul was happy to say that it seemed that they had a very good relationship, indeed.

“It’s… it’s not easy for them, you know,” he said. “They’re not only discriminated by the… by the straights, but by the gay community as well. All of ‘em think bisexuals are jus’ wacked, can’t choose, or are greedy, or… or are jus’ confused, or sleep around, or don’t exist at all,” he threw some of George’s comments back at the lad, looking at him sternly. “But I _know_ John. He didn’t… he didn’t _choose,_ George. How would you feel like if everyone… if everyone with normal ears said you’re not valid?”

“Hey!” George said, bringing a hand up to his ear. “My ears ‘re fine,” he huffed.

“So’s John’s sexuality,” Paul frowned, not giving in until George would _get_ it. “You told me yourself! People can feel sexual attraction towards other people, even while in a relationship. So can John. He just feels it towards _both_ men and women, without being able to _choose._ _”_

George stayed quiet for a while, sitting back in the armchair, starting to twirl the bottle in his hand again by holding it from the neck. Paul watched him silently, his fingers drawing absent-minded patterns on John’s back.

George sat up, cracked his neck, and nodded.

“Yeah. I think I get it,” he said. Paul raised his eyebrows slightly, not sure if to believe him.

“So if bisexuality is a part of his identity… by discriminating ‘is sexuality, they’re erasing a part of his identity… an’ that would sure piss me off too,” George continued, and Paul was astonished to hear those words coming out of his mouth. Fuck, he should’ve talked about this to the lad half a year ago, if all it took was one discussion with Paul—! John really didn’t have the patience to explain things properly, did he?

“Yeah,” he said, a bit breathlessly, nodding vigorously. “Yeah, exactly.”

George tilted his head, staring at John’s sleeping form, and then frowned with determination entering his expression.

“Then we just gotta make sure it’s not erased. An’ I’m gonna apologise to ‘im tomorrow.” he said, and Paul was suddenly reminded why George was his best friend — that readiness to help friends in need, that gentle soul that shined through George’s grumpy appearance, that openness towards _understanding_ when one took enough time to explain. Paul wasn’t sure his own dad would ever really understand, for example.

(He and John had kept their relationship a secret, and their parents thought them to be just good friends, especially when they mostly saw George tagging along with them. The age consent for sex between two men was 21, so basically what they were doing was illegal. Maybe, if they were still together in the upcoming years, Paul would carefully tell his parents.

He was quite sure they already knew, though.)

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes returning to John’s sleeping form. They needed to get to bed, since George would be sleeping on the couch, and he couldn’t do that before John and Paul had fucked off into John’s room.

He managed to wake John up enough to walk him into the bedroom, and then stood by the doorway for a while to look at George, who was making himself comfortable on the couch, Gubbins settling to sleep on his stomach.

“George?” he said, and the lad lifted his head to look at him with bleary eyes over the cat’s red fur.

“Hnnh?”

“Thanks,” Paul said, smiled when George waved a peace sign at him, and entered John’s bedroom to snuggle up to his boyfriend with a peaceful mind.

***~**~***

_6.7.1996_

“That’s the last box!” Amy exclaimed after she had placed down a cardboard box that was, indeed, the last one to be carried up the stairs. She straightened her back and wiped sweat from her forehead, soon high-fiving George who had been carrying the second-last box.

“Is it really? Boss!” Paul shouted from the bedroom, where he and his dad had carried John and Paul’s double bed mere moments before.

“This is gonna be a catastrophe,” John muttered, Gubbins (sleeping) in his arms as he turned on the spot, looking at the ton of boxes covering the floor of their new living room. He ran his palm absentmindedly over the back of his cat, seeking distraction from the fact that there was _so much work to do._ “We’re never gonna get these cleared out.”

“Oh, yes we will!” Paul marched into the living room, radiating with energy and vigour, the muscles in his arms tense as if he was clearly ready to organise every bloody object to their appropriate places, alone without anybody’s help, just his enthusiasm and strength as an ally.

…John felt tired just from looking at his boyfriend.

“No, we _won_ _’t,”_ he said, and Paul looked at him with his gaze full of determination and challenge. So John didn’t think they’d get things organised? Huh?? Paul was going to show him. He was _so_ going to show him, and prove that these cardboard boxes were nothing but a small inconvenience, and John just better _watch,_ Paul would tear the boxes open and throw their contents to their places faster than John could say, _“we’re never gonna make it”…_

John eventually stopped his practised (and most likely accurate) imitation on the thoughts that were running through Paul’s mind as the lad stood there, staring at the boxes like a bull in a China shop. Well, it was good that he had energy — John didn’t, and personally, he would love to postpone the whole… “organise your life” till tomorrow. What mattered was getting the mattress on the bed, and that was all they needed for a good life, in his opinion.

“Is there anythin’ else you need?” Stuart asked from the doorway, wiping his hands together. “I can come help tomorrow, but I’d really need to go — Astrid must be already waiting.”

“Yeah, run to your missus, like Pete,” John rolled his eyes and Stuart subtly checked whether old man McCartney was watching before flipping him a finger. Amy jumped into action as well, heading for the door.

“I’ll come by some day in the future,” she said vaguely and proceeded to give a kiss to John’s cheek before going over to Paul for a quick hug. “This place better be clean then,” she pointed at John, blew a kiss at Paul, and was out of the door with Stuart, their laughter at some shared joke echoing in the stairs.

“Well… will you two be alright here, then?” Paul’s dad, Jim McCartney said as he started unrolling the sleeves of his shirt. He had been a great help during the move, being an adult who actually owned a car, and had proved that carrying double beds to the second floor was possible even when you were nearing your fifties.

“Yeah, thanks Dad,” Paul grinned, placing his hands on his hips, a satisfied expression on his face. “This’ll do— we’ll handle the rest, the two of us.”

Jim nodded, bending down to pick his jacket from a kitchen counter where it had been haphazardly thrown in the beginning of the drudgery.

“Don’t forget Gin’s tea party next weekend,” he said with a wry grin. “She’ll want to hear everything about the flat.”

“Ugh,” John groaned. “I take it has to be habitable by then.”

“Most likely, in case she butts in for a surprise visit,” Jim winked, and with a wave of his hand he too left, leaving only Paul, John and George standing in the middle of the living room.

John turned hawk eyes on George, who started looking around himself nonchalantly.

“Did you have somewhere to be, Geo?” Paul asked in a sweet voice, and George snorted, shrugging before shaking his head, and then nodding when Paul’s gaze became slightly more pressing.

“I guess I do, then,” he said gruffly. “I was hopin’ for at least a bevvy and a joint offered for all the hard work, like.”

“You’ll get ‘em tomorrow,” John said with the largest, most impatient smile known to human being plastered on his face. “Now, off ye go.”

“I knew there was a reason ye wanted to carry in that mattress first,” George muttered, and then with a quick “ta-ra” he was gone as well, and John and Paul were the only ones left.

They turned to each other, and John’s stomach turned upside down at the shining, sparkling smile Paul was wearing. It reminded him of the smile on the lad’s face when John had given him his phone number (because there was no way John was ever going to forget such a blinding sight, especially with the pot making it look like Paul’s face was the _sun),_ and his stomach twisted with the same feeling than back then; it was a start of something new, and Paul was ready to explore it.

They had been planning this for a year, idly looking for rental flats from all over Liverpool while Paul was living with George and John rotted away in his shared boy box. Now that John’s studies were finally over and he was looking for jobs as a full-fledged graphic designer, and Paul was starting his masters degree in English, they had decided to finally do it for real; and so they had done an intensive search during several months, until eventually falling upon this place. Officially they were only flatmates; but most of their families and friends knew by now that they were a _little_ more than that.

Their new flat was situated almost right next to St. Luke’s church, and Paul’s university was six minutes away by bike. It had one bedroom and an open plan kitchen/living room, big enough for the two of them and not too small for a group of friends either. John especially loved the idea of cooking in the kitchen and being able to watch television at the same time. In short, it was a perfect place for the two of them, accompanied by John’s comatose cat.

“So,” Paul said. “Finally on our own.”

“Finally fuckin’ _together,_ _”_ John groaned. “You could’ve moved to the Smithdown two years ago!”

“I didn’t wanna share the flat with two _other_ guys,” Paul rolled his eyes. “And Mum would’ve got a heart attack if I first didn’t live with George for a bit.”

John sighed and shook his head, a small smile on his lips nevertheless. Gubbins was starting to weigh him down, and so he placed him on top of one of the boxes… since he _really_ needed his hands free for what was to come.

 _“So…”_ Paul looked around with the happiest grin John had seen in a while. “How d’you wanna celebrate moving together?”

“Hmm,” John raised an eyebrow, carefully slipping between the boxes to get back to Paul as fast as possible. “I really don’t know. Do you?”

“Well… we _could_ start organising stuff.”

John grimaced, making Paul laugh and shake his head at him, and almost tripped over a large blue bag that IKEA had launched this year and that they thought to be a marvellous invention for carrying all sorts of stuff. They had made a four-hour-long trip to the IKEA in Warrington that was 20 miles away from Liverpool upon moving to find everything they needed. It had also been Paul’s dad’s first time in the shop as well, and Paul and John hoped the McCartneys _needed_ all the stuff Jim had bought in his amazement at All The Cheap Things.

“Don’t even think about it,” John stated when he finally got to the man still chuckling quietly. They regarded each other in small silence before Paul cocked his head to the side, his smile impossibly widening still.

“Or we could… y’know, test that the bed is alright after those traumatising stairs.”

“You were thinking about the bed? I was thinking about testing the shower,” John grinned lazily, lifting a hand to stroke it against Paul’s hipbone. Paul hummed, raising an eyebrow, shooting John a _smoldering,_ dark look that made John go bees knees even after two years of seeing that gaze on almost daily basis.

“Of course,” Paul then said, trying to sound nonchalant, “the kitchen counters must be checked as well.”

“And the armchair needs, er, dusting.”

“Don’t forget the couch!”

“I couldn’t! And, um, of course we better check the walls as well, er, in case there are holes, like. Gotta probably press yer face pretty close, in case they’re small...”

“Naturally. _And_ now that you mention the holes, I would like to inspect the front door for ‘em, too… and just to check that it stays closed, y’know.”

“Of course, of course,” John nodded, licking his lips. Paul’s gaze dropped down to his mouth, his lips starting to curl into a smile.

It did feel like a start of something new. Their life together — it was only beginning, and John was sure that if they continued on the same path, they would be able to overcome anything. He sent a small prayer to all gods in existence for making him the one Paul had chosen, and for giving John no choice at all regarding that; he had always been a slave to Paul, pretty much from the very first moment. And if this utter love he was feeling for Paul was to continue in the years to come… who knew how far they could go?

John couldn’t wait to find out, and he was pretty sure that Paul couldn’t either.

“So…”

“Yeah?”

“…The armchair first?”

“You said it, love.”

**_*~**~*_ **

_4.7.2014_

George scratched at his beard-covered jaw, yawning as he glanced at the clock. It was ten in the evening, and usually he would be on his way to bed by now. Living on a farm had sure changed his inner clock, since Ringo tended to get up at five every day.

“Tired?” Peter asked with a grin, lifting his gaze from his phone. George nodded, moving his scratching hand to his itching neck. It was at his brother’s house George would be sleeping for the next few nights, since Paul and John really didn’t have any space left at their house with all the kids and animals and such. (Including Chris, sleeping on Dave’s floor.) Ringo was driving over to Liverpool on the D-day and then leave the next day, not able to stay for longer with the farm requiring his constant attention.

“Yeah, I should be sleeping already,” he said and settled more comfortably in the kitchen chair. They were the same as always, Peter not having wanted to spare precious money to something as unnecessary as new chairs, if the old ones worked fine and weren’t too broken. As far as George knew, Paul and John were the same.

Well, so were George and Ringo, but the crucial difference between their chairs and those of the rest was that Ringo had actually _repaired_ them every now and then.

Peter chuckled and nodded, reaching for his tea mug that was resting on an equally battered wooden table.

“Yeah, I remember when the kids were small… I used to take naps while they watched the Teletubbies.”

“Chris is not that small,” George rolled his eyes, wondering whether Chris was watching the Teletubbies right at the moment, since at John and Paul’s, the one who decided about the program was a three years old… since everything always revolved around the youngest of the group, so, Chuck this time.

George _hoped_ they weren’t watching Teletubbies at 10PM, but then again, Paul and John might have had something else on their minds than watch after the children at the moment.

“Oh, right. Funny how time flies,” Peter said then. “Like, I still remember John and Paul’s first meeting like it was yesterday.”

“Liaaar,” George laughed. “You were stoned out of your arse! _I_ remember that!”

Peter laughed and nodded, but before he could continue with whatever he had to say about the subject, his wife came in to wish them good night. She pecked Peter on the lips and George on the forehead, and left behind a comfortable silence as she exited the kitchen.

Peter twirled the spoon in his tea idly and then a smile spread on his lips.

“Who would’ve thought that one day they’d be getting married, though.”

George’s mouth widened into a large, happy grin, and he nodded without being able to suppress the waves of joy that washed over him.

“You weren’t there. It was clear from the very first moment.”

“Liiaaaar,” Peter echoed his words back to him, and the two brothers chuckled together. “The only thing clear enoughly was that Robert — bless his soul — had fuckin’ _great_ pot.”

They laughed again, and George thought back to the party he could still remember clear as a day. Did John and Paul remember it as well as he? He sure as hell would never forget when Paul had almost _kissed_ John after knowing him for an hour. George was still feeling rather smug about that particular intervention.

“It was a good party, though,” he said after a small silence had descended again. “As life-changing as ye used to say they were.”

Peter grinned and didn’t say anything, still twirling the spoon in his tea—

—and then he suddenly froze, the spoon clinking against the mug as he jumped to his feet right after.

“Wait here!” he said, suddenly sounding breathless. “Oh God, I— I got something— I _must have—_ _”_

With those words he rushed out of the kitchen, and George was left sitting in the rather uncomfortable wooden chair, frowning with confusion.

He waited and waited, feeling more and more tired as minutes passed. Damn it, Peter — was he going to have to get up and go look for his brother? He would have to go sleep soon, since George was supposed to help with the wedding preparations tomorrow, Paul and John’s mums ready to boss around everyone involved to make _this_ particular party unforgettable. Besides, being Paul’s best man, George kind of had to be awake… he hoped that he would be able to go to sleep early tomorrow, to be ready for the actual day.

Paul and John had chosen the D-day to be the 6th of July, saying that they had always wanted a summer wedding, and the date had felt right — it was one step away from perfection, just like their relationship, but George suspected the marriage would take care of that slight flaw in their otherwise perfect relationship. Or then the slight flaw just happened to be John’s overall personality, and you couldn’t really do anything about that.

George also suspected that the date marked something important to his friends — if he remembered right, it had been July 6th in 1996 that the two had moved together for the first time, and that day undoubtedly included a lot of unforgettable sex. At least if they were at all like George and Ringo (who were getting married in next year’s March).

He was wearing a small, fond smile aimed at his thoughts when Peter dashed back into the kitchen, clutching a blue book in his hands that George soon recognised as an old photo album.

In the cover read _1993,_ and George’s heart started thumping a bit harder against his chest. Surely Peter wouldn’t have…

“I’d completely forgotten,” Peter said, an excited blush on his cheeks, his voice carrying over the kitchen with barely suppressed glee that seeped through the cracks in his carefully schooled expression. “I was thinking what I could give as a wedding present, but— this takes care of that—”

He opened the photo album, George’s heart now racing at full speed, and flipped through the pages until…

He stared at a photo, a smile wider than what George had seen in a while rising to his lips, and then the album was pushed in front of George.

George stared at the photo, his heart almost leaping out of his mouth with excitement.

“Oh. My. God,” he said, completely out of breath. “You gotta be kidding. You’ve… you’ve had this all these years??” he almost yelled, reaching out to pull the album closer, staring at the photo where the image description said _John and Paul and the dinosaur blanket! 23.10.1993,_ and where his two oldest and dearest friends were sitting together on top of Peter’s old and hideous dinosaur blanket, Paul’s left leg sprawled over John’s thighs, the two of them rolling joints together with smiles on their faces. They looked young, and full of life with their ridiculous 90’s clothes on, and George’s eyes started burning.

“I can’t believe it,” he choked, wet, hot tears dripping down his face. He pressed a hand against his mouth and with the other carefully took the photo out of the album, bringing it closer. He had thought he had a good memory of that day, but this… _this_ brought it back with so much more clarity. George could almost hear John and Paul giggling together, the smell of pot covering them from head to toe, John looking at Paul in a way that, George realised, hadn’t changed that much over the course of the years. It had become deeper, more trusting, as well as deeply loving, but… it had always been there, in some form.

“Christ,” he breathed, starting to wipe his eyes. “I bet they’re gonna cry. They’re such sissies. I bet they’re gonna fucking ruin their suits with snot. And then they’re gonna look at each other with these awful, sappy smiles, and kiss, and there’s gonna be snot _everywhere._ _”_

“If that’s what’s gonna happen, I don’t even have any regrets about giving this rare treasure over to them,” Peter laughed. “Although I might have to take another photo of that happening, and then keep that for the next twenty years.”

“Do that,” George said, managing to get his tears under control. He stared at the photo some more, and a smile started spreading on his lips, and he felt like it was never going to leave his face again.

“I might have to buy some crisps before going over to their place tomorrow,” he mused, and placed the photo on the table, suddenly feeling energised enough to not care about the time at all. “Like, ten bags would probably be enough.”

Peter laughed, and George leaned back in his chair, unable to tear his eyes away from the photo.

Well.

You certainly never knew just _what_ talking about Nirvana and then getting dead blazed could give.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this chapter takes place in the 90's, I've used some of 90's lingo + scouse sayings. However, i didn't wanna go too deep into the slang since that would've come off as phony, since I really have no idea how to write english in general, and then mixing up dialects and accents and slang on top of that just..... just kills, man. anyway, here are some words that might confuse you if you're like me: doesn't actually speak english before research happens. yey!
> 
>  **pimpin'** \- cool (90's)  
>  **lavvy** \- toilet (scouse)  
>  **blazed** \- high (90's)  
>  **damn skippy!** \- that's right (90's)  
>  **beards** \- bullshit (often accompanied by scratching the chin) (90's)  
>  **wacked** \- somebody out of their mind. Negative (90's)  
>  **boss!** \- marvellous! (scouse)  
>  **bevvy** \- an alcoholic drink, mostly beer (scouse)
> 
> Here some info of the things i've referred to in this chapter:  
>  _[The Hillsborough disaster](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hillsborough_disaster)_  
>  _Wirral_ = _rumoured_ to be situated on the other side of the Mersey. "The posh place". Going there was like flying to the other side of the world. For the record, in this AU none of the boys have ever stepped a foot in there either. They're not sure Wirral actually exists.  
>  _Brookside_ = a legendary soap-opera situated in Liverpool that everyone watched  
>  _John Moores University_ = changed it's name from Liverpool Polytechnic to John Moores University in 1992  
>  _The Smithdown Road_ = The Place to live for the students in the 80's, 90's. Pubs. Bars. Everything along the same road. Noise complaints eventually diminished the amount of bars and students started little by little living elsewhere as well (students are all simple beings).  
>  _Chavasse Park_ = The Place To Hang Out in the 90's.  
>  _The Heritage Market_ = situated at Stanley Dock for 30 years, an ideal place for cheap weekend shopping at stalls. Closed in 2011
> 
> Also the whole concept of asexuality was a bit unfamiliar in those days, not even having a proper unified term yet, and probably no one in Liverpool even thought such a thing to exist. Paul, who is grey/demi, has no hopes of knowing his sexuality in a while. Sorry, Paul.
> 
> ............that's all for now. i promise next chapter includes less research, and as such is written faster. see you then!!!! *runs off*
> 
> [ _psst. here's a bigger version of the art_ ](https://trash-by-cjd.tumblr.com/post/176055593122/chut-je-dors-before-long-not-that-paul-could)


	7. Let Poor Dad Relax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter warnings** : Mentions of sex, adults talking about boring stuff, a muddy dog and muddy CHILDREN (for those who get triggered by such things), George (for those who are John)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha erm so this chapter's been ready for like a week BUT since the last chapter was.... such a BOMB i have become utterly unsure whether i'm ever gonna be able to write something that would live up to that and as such i needed Puck to give this chapter a green light.... and she's been busy so........... I GOT A GREEN LIGHT LAST NIGHT. whatever i was waiting from the last chapter wasn't _this_ amount of love so thank you so much for all your comments! i'll try my best in answering all of them as soon as i can!
> 
> i hope y'all like this chapter too...... (i'm not kidding abt that unsureness. rip)
> 
> this chapter didn't include much research (although now i know how to fix slated roofs) so i am Very Relieved about that *wipes sweat off*. however, i did make the cottage in sims 3 to get a clear view on how it actually is, and that took... so..... many...... hours................. (it's still only partially furnished... rip)
> 
> this chapter comes back to the actual storyline (there isn't one, but like, time-wise) and we're back at the cottage! so this is cottage chapter n#2. yey. A great big thanks to Puck like always! I really wouldn't be here without her <3 ENJOY THE READ.

Paul turned the car around upon arriving to their lot, and started backing up towards the front door. The moment the car stopped moving John was out of the car with one cat in each armpit, dropping them down without much of a care before taking a look around.

The fresh smell of trees and water filled his nostrils and he inhaled deeply, just standing still for a moment with his eyes closed and hands on his hips. He could hear Paul getting out of the car with a relieved sigh, and then a slight wind picked up, the sound of it rustlingin the treetops.

No cars could be heard — no other human sounds aside from Paul’s light breathing existed, and the sense of peace that entered John’s chest was almost incomprehensible. It settled into the pit of his stomach and he let out a deep exhale, his shoulders relaxing.

“Okay,” Paul said with a cheerful voice of someone who had acquired nirvana, and would continue to enjoy from it for the next two weeks, “I suggest we fill the fridge, carry your paints at the back, and I can take care of the rest _of everything_ while _you_ get to work.”

The sense of peace in John was brutally killed, leaving his body as the wind played with his hair dramatically, and he turned to Paul with his shoulders slumped and the foulest, saddest grimace known to earth on his face. Paul, the bastard, just laughed and nodded his head towards the cottage.

“Open the door for me, husband,” he said with a chuckle and headed towards the back of the car. John grumbled under his breath and made his way to the door, fishing the keys from his pocket.

Inserting them into the lock he braced himself and started lifting the wooden door with his shoulder to open it. The door had to be lifted up slightly while the key was turned, and before pushing it open forcefully you had to pull it towards yourself a bit. So, to summarise the effort and talent needed for opening the lock, it sufficed to say that the door was completely and utterly burglar proof.

In the distance John could hear Vera and Chuck shouting about something. The two had wanted to walk to the cottage with Martha, and since it was completely safe to cross two fields with Martha following the kids, Paul and John had had no qualms with it. It was the first time they let Chuck do it, but Vera and Dave knew the surrounding fields like they owned them, and Vera was trustworthy enough to keep her little brother safe.

More than often John and Paul had thanked the God for Ringo and George living so close; whenever one of the kids disappeared, instead of starting to comb the lake, they could just call George and ask him to check the granary. Consequently, the kids treated the whole area — the cottage, the farm, and the fields that Ringo owned — as theirs, and the adults didn’t mind that at all; It kept the kids busy enough to not wander to the lake. Ringo’s dogs, Bob and Dylan (named lovingly by his music fanatic husband) were also pros at sniffing out the kids whenever they were hiding in a bush, and as such Paul and John rarely felt any worry even if the kids weren’t seen.

John yanked and pushed, and the door opened just as Paul appeared next to him with the coolers in his hands, still smiling in his blissful nirvana. Together they set to the task of filling the fridge that was, indeed, cold already (God bless Ringo! John yelled out loud, and Paul laughed). Once that was done they hauled John’s paint bag into John’s studio.

The cottage itself wasn’t big at all. Upon entering it one would find themselves straight from the living room/kitchen, a round, white table in the middle of the room separating the two. Situated in the rear of the cottage was the small kitchen that consisted of a fridge, ornamented beige counters and cabinets, and an old stove that had once upon a time been saved from a flea market.Next to the kitchen was a fireplace, which was crucial and a literate life-saver considering their winter visits to the cottage.

In the living room the first things to catch one’s attention were an old, battered couch that several cats (and once one drunk theatre student) had used as a scratching surface, and an equally awful armchair. Paul and John’s first television was in the corner, and there were a few floor poufs that Paul’s grandmother had made some 17 years ago (Poufs for poofs, she had joked, and John had lost it right there and then).

To the left from the front door were three doors; two leading into bedrooms and one into the bathroom. The bathroom had ugly brown-coloured tiles in it, because for some reason the 90’s had left both John and Paul rather colour blind when it came to inferior design and decorating. The bedrooms were large enough to accompany their beds. That was it. Nothing else fit in. Well, Paul and John had a wardrobe that was as ugly as the kitchen cabinets.

Most of what was in the cottage had been acquired over the years from either flea markets, the good ole Heritage market in Liverpool, or from friends and family members who wanted to get rid of their stuff. When renovating the cottage, neither Paul or John had had much money, and so the whole place was a bit… well, you wouldn’t be able to say it had been completely renovated only 20 years ago or so. But it had a rather homely feeling to it, and above all, it was their _cottage._ They loved it as it was… even though there was always some work to do, and they never got around to actually relaxing in the middle of the nature.

John had disappeared into his studio (if it could be called one, being an old utility room that barely had space for one person) with an excellent imitation of Dave in the lad’s worst days, his cottage hat perched miserably on top of his head. Paul had hauled all the bags inside, leaving only the kids’ bags in the car — that would teach them to carry their own stuff — and was now sitting outside in the sun with Pyramus melted in his lap, both enjoying the warm day to its fullest. He had changed into a much more comfortable pair of trousers, ones that had paint all over them and a huge hole under the knee, and was going through a list in his head of All Things That Needed To Be Done. Fortunately he had two weeks for all of that — but the roof would have to be fixed right away.

There was a rustle on the one side of the lot where the fields started, and then Vera and Chuck appeared, both already dishevelled, looking like they had gone through mud, and were both _loving it._ Martha jumped out right after them and came to give Paul a couple of wet, muddy kisses, her tail wagging with joy of being finally reunited with her master.

“You certainly took your time,” Paul called at the two kids after he had regained his mouth from the Goodest Girl on earth. Vera lifted an accusing finger towards Martha.

“Martha fell into mud and we had to save her!”

“Really?” Paul lifted an eyebrow, knowing that it was more likely that Martha had cheerfully walked into the mud, and Vera and Chuck had followed just as happily. At least according to the shining on Chuck’s face.

“We saw a mouse! A mouse! He was small, like this!” he came towards Paul with an amazed look on his face, cupping his hands together to show just _how_ small the mouse had been. “Martha tried to catch him but he ran away! And there— there were beetles, they were _big!”_

“Oh?” Paul grinned at him, more than delighted with Chuck’s first self-experience in the wild nature. “Were they colourful?”

“Yeah! They had golden backs, I tried to pet them but they flew away,” Chuck said, almost jumping up and down. “Where’s Dad, I wanna tell Dad, too—”

“Da’s in the studio,” Paul said. “I’m sure he’ll wanna hear about the golden beetles. And hear the story of how you saved Martha.”

Chuck nodded and ran towards the cottage, soon disappearing inside while already yelling with an excited voice, _‘Daaad, we saw golden beetles!’._ Paul smiled after him and patted the empty space next to him for Martha to topple over there. The dog did just that and showed her mud-covered stomach with enthusiasm. 

Well, Paul would wash her… in two weeks, maybe.

“If you want ice cream, there’s some in the freezer,” he told Vera, who let out an excited exclamation.

“Do we have to save any of it for the others?” she asked with a hopeful eyebrow and Paul laughed, nodding.

“Not for Dave, but I think the others would appreciate it.”

Vera nodded and started heading towards the cottage as well. Paul hoped she would leave her muddy jacket outside, so that the cottage would be easier to clean in two weeks’ time… but of course she walked in with it, and probably bumped into the table as well on her way to the freezer. Typical.

He scratched Martha behind her ear and enjoyed the day, Pyramus slowly relaxing in his lap now that the terror of two dirty children had passed.

***~**~***

George and Ringo came over after seven, just as promised. With them came Dave and Chris, as well as Bob and Dylan. They also brought a bottle of white wine that was, as George said, local to the point where it had been bought from Bala. They all decided to ignore the French text at the back of the bottle, and settled on a blanket in the middle of the yard while the children kept themselves amused on an old Playstation 2 inside the cottage. The sun was still shining, although in an hour it would disappear behind the treetops, but for now they could enjoy the small warmth it provided.

“So,” Ringo said after a first sip of the wine they were enjoying from plastic, colourful mugs, “how’s painting, John?”

John groaned, a fresh stain of blue paint in his jaw. Paul had an urge to wipe it away tenderly (tenderly being the key word), but he was sitting too far away, George cramped between them with the wine bottle in hand.

“I’m not sure if I’m gonna have a moment of free time,” John sighed and shook his head. “This career was the worst choice of me life.”

“Yeah, sure,” George deadpanned and Paul snickered, glad to be with his beloved friends again. The squad was there, and there really was nothing else he required for being happy.

“Is there anything else you’d do?” Ringo raised an eyebrow, and John grimaced, shaking his head.

“Aw, hell no.”

They laughed, and silence descended for a moment before George turned to Paul.

“So how are yer old people? In France, now, right?”

“Yeah,” Paul nodded, glancing at John habitually, who was staring at him with an expression that Paul had learnt to associate with a camera soon snapping a photo of him. John must have had about a million photos of Paul, always having said that there just was something in his face that made John’s fingers itch for a camera. “They’re well… Although, um, Dad’s hearing is getting worse, though.”

George hummed and Ringo let out an empathetic, wordless sound.

“It’s all the music,” John said, the others nodding along. “We’ve told our kids a million times to protect their hearing, ‘cos otherwise they’ll end up like ‘im in twenty years.”

“We didn’t think about that much, did we?” George said, staring at his wine before looking up at Paul with raised eyebrows. “I mean, of course we didn’t listen to music as much as they do now, like, the kids.”

“Oh yeah, Dave can’t live without his headphones,” Paul said and chuckled. “It’s just that now they can carry it with ‘em everywhere.”

“That’s what your Da said about you and your Walkman in 1995,” John said lazily, and they all burst into laughter.

“Maybe it’s good I didn’t become a music teacher,” George mused once their chuckles had finally died down. “Now I just get deaf from the machines starting up at 6AM.”

“Oh, get over it,” Ringo scoffed, waving his hand nonchalantly, and the others started laughing again. It had always been like that whenever the four of them got together; they could barely get in three words before someone would start laughing again.

“What about— what about your mum, Ritchie?” John asked then, and Ringo shrugged, sighing.

“Well, she’s fine of course, all happy and such, yeah,” he said and glanced at George, who pressed his lips tightly together. “Actually, when we visited them a couple o’ days ago, she thought George to be her husband.”

Paul stifled a chuckle out of courtesy, and Ringo grinned at seeing that.

“No no, laugh away, ‘cos I did. An’ Tad just said — freely translating — _‘we Starkeys do have a good taste’_ , yeah,” he chuckled. George wriggled his eyebrows (as much as they would move) and took a sip of his wine.

“I’m not disagreeing,” he said. “But she does tell fascinating stories of how the farm was like in the 60’s.”

“She _thinks_ it’s the 60’s,” Ringo sighed again, twirling the wine in his mug. “But she isn’t hurting, and that’s what matters.”

They all hummed in agreement, and Paul thanked God for his parents both being relatively fine. They had just turned 75 the both of them, but there were no signs of them slowing down any time soon. Ringo’s parents were of same age, but his mother had the Alzheimer’s that started showing signs in the early 2000’s. It was then that Ringo had inherited the farm (way earlier than he had anticipated), and his parents had moved to Bala, first living on their own, and now having moved into a retirement home so that Elsie could get everything she needed.

George’s father Harold and his mother Louise, now respectively 84 and 86 years old, lived still in their old house, constantly ready to house a bunch of grandchildren, somehow miraculously always some sweet treats ready when one visited them. John and Paul treated them almost like extra grandparents, but unfortunately Harold had been diagnosed with lung cancer not long ago. He was still battling it, and John and Paul made sure to see them regularly, both for George’s as their own sake. The kids adored “Grand-auntie Louise and Grand-uncle Harold” and Paul and John were not far from worshipping them either.

“And your parents, John?” Ringo asked to divert the discussion away from his parents, knowing the subject made Paul and John feel like they should be doing more to help, while Ringo himself strictly refused to receive any sort of pity.

“Oh, well, hah,” John snorted. “Like always. I’m in the middle of a battle of wills ‘ere — Mum’s tryin’ to get me to talk to Jackie about ‘er questionable new boyfriend, and Jackie’s tryin’ to get me to talk to Mum about acceptance an’ shit.”

“Really?” Paul leaned forward, raising his eyebrows. “I haven’t heard a thing about a new boyfriend.”

“I think it’s just a lie so that Jackie gets Mum off her neck for being so _old_ and _single,”_ John rolled his eyes and sipped at his wine. One more mug and he would be completely out of it, so Paul really had to keep an eye on him. Fortunately George, who was guarding the bottle, knew John’s limits very well — better than the man himself.

“So, they’re doing fine? Yer dad not breathing down your neck?” George asked and John shook his head, not commenting any further on that. As far as they were aware, Alfred was healthy as ever… well, to be completely frank, Paul was rather sure that Alfred was on his way to the grave, with all that drinking that had lasted for his whole life. (Then again, who knew with that bastard… Paul had been sure he’d die about 20 years ago, but behold; he hadn’t, and wasn’t showing signs of going down any time soon, which was of course a good thing… even when the continuous drinking wasn’t.)

On the other hand, John’s mother Julia was like a train filled with explosive fireworks… in a good way. She had enough energy to share with a hundred other people, and it was from her that John had inherited his wonderful wit and sense of humour, as well as his compassion and gentleness. Julia and her new (give or take 30 years) husband lived in Wirral, enjoying their retirement in their nice middle class home.

Family matters having been exchanged, they moved onto another topics, such as the Brexit being the scum of the earth (John), the politics being really unfair towards farmers (Ringo), the politics not caring enough about rotting apples (George), and the Game of Thrones being a surprisingly good book series and how did real world politics reflect into an imaginary world with dragons (Paul)?

An hour later, The Starkey-Harrisons wished them good night, and George said he’d come over tomorrow to help Paul with the roof. Vera said that she’d rather spend the day with the kittens, and Chuck agreed, and since Dave would probably be tagging along with Chris anyway, they stuck up a deal of exchange; Ringo would get all the kids, John and Paul would get George. And so everybody (save for Ringo perhaps) were happy, and the two families separated at the edge of the field. Ringo looked at it with a critical eye, muttering that more water was needed, and George grinned at him as they started heading towards the farm hand in hand, Chris trailing behind them, Bob and Dylan having disappeared amongst the golden hay.

***~**~***

Since space was rather limited in the cottage, all three children slept in the same room. Upon Dave first arriving into the family, Paul and John had bought a couch that could be transformed into a double bed, and then when Vera came they had purchased a bunk bed, and Dave and Vera had slept in it comfortably before Chuck was born, and Dave moved back to the couch. He didn’t complain, and Vera loved sleeping in the upper bed, and Chuck always wanted to sleep in the same room with his siblings anyway, and so the three peacefully retired into the bedroom with their pyjamas on. Paul and John stayed in the kitchen/living room, Paul doing the dishes while John fed the cats and Martha.

“Gimme a towel,” John said quietly as he came to Paul’s side, and Paul slapped him on the shoulder with the dish towel. John rolled his eyes and settled onto drying every wet object that came his way from Paul’s general direction.

“I think I’m gonna get up at six tomorrow,” Paul said in a hushed tone, and John turned to look at him blankly.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said in a warning tone, and Paul snickered quietly, glancing towards the children’s bedroom. Chuck was probably already asleep, and he wouldn’t wake up, and Dave wouldn’t sleep in a few hours yet, but Vera was probably trying to catch a wink right at this moment.

“Just watch me,” Paul turned to grin at John, who still had his cottage hat on (Paul hated it, but at the same time was weirdly fond of the awful hat). The blue paint was still adorning his jaw, and now Paul put down the dish brush, shook his hands to get rid of extra water, and reached out for John’s face to cradle it in his palms.

He started wiping the paint off with his thumb, smiling at the man who was looking at him with a raised eyebrow and a knowing look.

“There,” Paul said softly once it was all off and John’s face had returned to its usual palish shade. “All clean.”

“I’ll show you clean,” John said with a mischievous tone, and then lifted up a clean plate between their faces. “This is clean.”

Paul burst into laughter, pressing a hand against his mouth to stop if from bubbling freely from his mouth.

“Aren’t you observant,” he said, his voice coming out muffled through his fingers, his shoulders shaking as he turned back to the dishes. There wasn’t much left, but it was better to start tomorrow with clean cupboards.

“So…” John said after a while had passed and they were almost done with cleaning the kitchen. “…how about a kitten?”

Paul chuckled, shaking his head fondly.

“I mean, I’m not opposed to _one…_ and that means _one_ only, but it’ll be a lot of work.”

John snorted shaking his head.

“It’s not a lot of work! You just let it do what it wants to do, and then yell afterwards.”

“Is that how you raised our children?”

John laughed and nodded just for the sake of it. Paul rolled his eyes, glad that he knew better.

“It’s how you raised _me,”_ John then said, pulling a goofy face to accompany his words. Paul laughed and nodded in agreement, turning to drag John into the bedroom for some prime time cuddling. It was highly due by now for sure.

***~**~***

As John had feared, Paul hadn’t joked about getting up at six. The man got this unbelievable need to be productive whenever they were at the cottage, and so John wasn’t surprised to wake up to an empty bed, Paul’s side already cold. The curtains had been drawn aside (which John knew to be out of complete evilness) and he could hear cheerful humming from the outside.

Groaning and direly pitying himself, John rolled over to Paul’s side and breathed in the man’s scent from the pillow for a moment before pushing himself up to his knees, rubbing his face with both of his hands. God, Paul was bursting with energy, and John was just _doomed,_ forced to spend every moment of his holiday between his paintings and his over-energised husband.

“ _Are you serious??”_ There was a voice yelling outside. _“You need a new one, that’ll break!”_

John squinted at the window that was to him in his glass-less state like a blindingly white square, and then got up to fight it open.

He blinked when light and air entered into the room, the morning smelling like fresh and humid grass, small wind pushing past him and bringing in the scent of the flowers they had planted under the window.

One fuzzy figure that John immediately knew to be Paul was standing next to the stone shed. Another was advancing through the yard, from the direction of George and Ringo’s, and a white flurry thing started running towards him quickly. Counting one plus one, and adding to the fact that the fuzzy figure had spoken in George’s voice, John deduced it to be him, and the white thing was probably Martha. Ugh, what was Geo doing here so early?

“I thought it’s fine!” Paul called and John narrowed his eyes, unfortunately too far away to see what the man was talking about. If he had to guess, it was about the shelf that had come down in the shed the last time they’d been here, and now Paul was ripe and ready to put it back up, oozing with determination and fire that being on a holiday had brought. John regretted briefly having fallen in love with the man… he hadn’t know what sort of a monster Paul would turn into once at the cottage, free from all restraints, like a proper nature’s son.

“It’s in a shambles! It’ll break in two the moment ye put it back up!” George called, and as he walked past the cottage a fuzzy limb extended from his fuzzy form, waving at John.

“Good mornin’!” he called in a voice that indicated a shit-eating grin on his face, and John hated him to his core. “Still asleep?”

“Fuck off,” John called, and to accompany his words he yawned. “I just need me tea. You two want any?”

“No, I already had a cup two hours ago,” Paul called cheerfully, then addressed his next words to George who had let out a dismissive sound at John’s question. “Where d'you suggest I get a new one??”

“We have lots of unused planks…” John heard George say before he pulled back from the window and went to fetch his glasses from the bedside table, stretching his back with a relieved moan as he did so. Since the two busy bees didn’t want any tea, well… there was more for John.

He stood still for a minute, contemplating life and wondering whether it was possible for him to just… not go into the studio today, and like, fix the roof instead (which Paul had already started yesterday with nauseating enthusiasm).

Suddenly Chuck’s voice reached his ears, and soon the bedroom door handle went down and the boy ran in.

“Dad, guess what I— what I dreamed?”

“Dreamt,” John corrected automatically and leaned down to lift the lad into his arms to give him a big hug and a loud kiss on the cheek.

“I dreamt, dr… I was riding those golden beetles, that we saw— saw in the field yesterday! And they were singing that song about that submarine that you always sing, that yel… yellow submarine—”

“Did they, now?” John grinned. “How could you ride them, though? Were you reeeaaally small?”

Chuck paused for a moment, his mouth open and eyes staring into space as he tried to trace back the memory.

“Nuh-huh,” he shook his head eventually while John had already started carrying him towards the bathroom for dental hygiene. “They were _huuuuge.”_

“Oh, so you mean _huuuuuUGE?”_ John widened his eyes and exaggerated the sound, puffing out his cheeks right afterwards.

“Yeeeah,” Chuck said with a mischievous voice that he had inherited straight from John, and then the boy started giggling at him, which John deemed excellent and exactly what his son should be doing.

“Okay,” he said and dropped Chuck down in front of the sink that definitely needed throughout scrubbing, “teeth!”

Brushing your teeth at the cottage was always different from the usual. Since there was no water coming in, they would first fill a tea mug from one of the water canisters they’d brought with them. Then they would brush their teeth, garglewith the water from the mug, wash their lips from the toothpaste, and then to finalise the process they would wash the toothbrush with the remaining water. That way they could both save water and the environment… and they didn’t really have a choice, since the well water was good for washing dishes but not drinkable.

Once they were done with their teeth, John helping Chuck along the process, they headed into the kitchen. Chuck grabbed Mr. Snoffle-toe into his armpit and climbed on the couch, taking a comic magazine from an old, battered coffee table that needed painting. While the boy was absorbed by the comic, John prepared toasts and eggs for them along with some good, black tea, Thisbe and Pyramus circling his legs with hopeless, miserable meows. Ha. As if John would be swayed by their desperate pleas.

(He slipped them one cooked egg split in half.)

Paul and George entered the cottage after ten minutes of John and Chuck sitting at the breakfast table had passed, Paul wiping his hands on his dirty jeans.

“I’m gonna pass by the farm to grab some planks for the shelf,” he said. “But we thought of eating a second breakfast after all, since I’m getting hungry already.”

“Splendid,” John said, motioning towards empty chairs. “I bet Vera’s gonna wake up soon, too.”

“Oh, so she’s not that much of an early riser anymore?” George asked as he went to fetch himself a tea mug and then settled down at the table, tactically between John and Paul. The bastard did it on purpose, and John _knew_ it. It had been the same yesterday, and while Paul was happily oblivious to George’s subtle cock-blocking game, John was _very well aware._ He just wondered how Paul hadn’t caught on yet, since George had literally been doing it for 20 years, ever since the first time they met! The glee that the man got from John glaring at him was unbelievably strong.

“She’s sleeping longer and longer,” Paul said, happiness radiating from him in big, relaxing waves like a free meditation course on the Internet. Thisbe jumped up on the table and was heading towards his tea, but Paul managed to grab and drop him on the floor habitually.

“In a year she’ll be as bad as Dave.”

“Chris never really had that period,” George said in a contemplating voice, pouring himself tea like he owned the teapot. John narrowed his eyes at him and George stuck his tongue out at him briefly before leaning back in his chair with a content expression. Ugh. He was always teasing John (fondly) whenever Paul wasn’t looking, and no matter how much John complained, Paul would just look at him with that “stop talking nonsense” -expression of his. Ha, bloody angel Georgie, who couldn’t do anything bad! At least not in Paul’s eyes.

“I’m pretty sure he wasn’t given a chance,” John said nonchalantly, sipping his tea and looking at George pointedly. The man shrugged, eyeing daggers at him subtly when Paul was occupied in making Chuck another toast while keeping Pyramus off the table.

“Well, teenagers aren’t all the same… I would know, I do have a master in pedagogy.”

“ _Music_ pedagogy.”

“Says the _scribbler.”_

“That’s a _scribbler_ from _John Moores—”_

“ _Posh.”_

“What’s a posh?” Chuck asked just as the situation between George and John was about to escalate into calling names (albeit fondly).

“It’s, uh, someone who speaks real fancy and has a lot of money,” George said, narrowing his eyes at John, who _did_ come from a middle-class family, but didn’t really parade around advertising it.

“It’s like the Queen speaks,” Paul said, and then paused. “And John in any restaurant in London.”

George broke into giggles and John kicked him under the table, rolling his eyes at Paul.

“I’m not posh,” he started, but didn’t get any further laying groundwork to his argument when Vera appeared next to the table, quiet like a ghost with her cottage clothes on and her breath smelling like peppermint.

“You are a bit,” she said and climbed onto a chair next to John after pushing its previous occupant — Thisbe — on the floor. John stared at her, his mouth hanging open.

“Betrayed by my _own_ daughter! Why, jolly bad!” he then exclaimed with a posh accent to top it, bringing a hand to his heart dramatically. The others laughed and Chuck frowned with confusion.

“But Dad doesn’t talk like that.”

“O’ course I don’t,” John snorted. “Pop and Uncle Geo just like to make fun of me,” he added softly to the boy, winking with a grin.

“Good to see you still smiling,” Paul said cheerfully, George too grinning in a way that told the two of them were becoming terror twins again. “I hope you take that same energy into the studio.”

John groaned and wondered what on earth had made him love Paul so much.

***~**~***

“So what’s with the roof exactly?” George asked as he was climbing up to the roof, where Paul was already pulling out his tools. Fortunately it hadn’t been raining much in the past few weeks, since John had noticed a leak last time they’d been leaving, and they had just haphasardly covered parts of the roof with plastic, not sure where the problem exactly was.

“Well, it leaks,” Paul said, glancing back at George, who remained standing on the ladders, leaning his elbows on the roof. “So I’m just gonna start pulling out the slates and see where the problem is.”

A small wind picked up and danced in Paul’s hair. It was stronger up here than down on the yard, and he took a deep breath as some sort of an ultimate contentment filled him. He paused for a moment and looked at the view, the Bala lake glittering beautifully behind the trees and the Starkey fields. It was one of his favourite things in the world, being at the cottage and seeing this, getting away from the city and cars and people. He could very well understand how George hadn’t really hesitated _that_ much when it came to moving in with Ringo.

Paul wished he could pass this peaceful feeling and the appreciation of remote locations without much technology onto his children. He was pretty sure that all of them liked it well enough already, save for Dave, who just seemed to hate the cottage to his core at the moment. A few years back he had been just as enthusiastic about coming here, though, so maybe he would return to that mindset in the years to come. Vera and Chuck loved the place, and loved the farm, and Paul was rather sure they wouldn’t have liked the cottage that much had the farm not been there.

Well, thank God for Ringo, and it wasn’t the first time in his life Paul thought so… and wouldn’t be the last either.

Vera and Chuck were at the farm now as well. Paul had walked with them there, fetching a couple of wooden planks for the shelf while George showed him his garden. Paul wasn’t personally the most interested in plants and such, but it was good seeing George had found a real passion alongside his marriage… and now scoffed at anyone who said they didn’t like gardening. So to protect their friendship, Paul had wisely kept his mouth shut, and just nodded enthusiastically when George pointed at his plants and let Paul inside the wonderful world of destroying brown rot from apples.

“D’ye know how to fix the roof?” George asked, leaning his chin on his elbows, and Paul snorted as he took out his slate splinter; his best friend when it came to battling this roof.

“Geo, I _built_ this roof,” he said with raised eyebrows, and George chuckled.

“Yeah, an’ took ye long enough.”

“Shurrup,” Paul rolled his eyes and got on to work. There were a couple of slates that were already in a rather bad shape, and he had decided to start on those — he just hoped the _whole_ roof didn’t need to be replaced. That would come in rather expensive as well.

George’s sharp gaze followed him intently as he worked by slipping the slate ripper under the slates to cut nails that were keeping the roof together, and then carefully wriggled the slates out one by one.

“That’s a nasty crack,” George observed when Paul pulled the third slate out and revealed a rather big crack that went almost through the whole slate.

“That’s a nasty problem,” Paul said and started working on getting the cracked slate out. “I mean, if there are more of these… the roof isn’t in the best condition. We were all about saving money… Have you looked at our couch lately? It’s _awful_ — I’m hoping to replace it at some point but we’ve never come ‘round to it.”

George hummed in agreement, and fell silent again.

After a while he spoke again, his tone slightly quieter.

“How’s it really going at ‘ome? No problems or anything?”

Paul paused for a moment, glancing at the man over his shoulder, before returning to the slate.

“No, not really,” he said. “I mean, of course there’s a bit of some turbulence with Dave, but that’s just normal.”

“Mmh… wouldn’t it help if he had a hobby or something?”

“I mean… we’ve tried,” Paul said, putting down the tools for a moment and stretched carefully — his back didn’t really agree on being hunched on the roof like this. “But, um, ever since he stopped dancing he hasn’t really been interested in anything else. He just hangs out with his friends.”

“What about foot?” George asked. “He liked it so much when he was a kid.”

“He’s in that phase now that nothing really interests ‘im, save for maybe video games and ‘is mates,” Paul sighed, shaking his head. “We’ve been nagging at him about that but then again, we don’t wanna force him.”

“Uhhuh… What about Vera? Her period start yet?” George raised an eyebrow, and Paul shuddered at the thought; not out of disgust, but out of the terrifying helpless feeling that he was a man, and whenever he tried asking from his mum how to possibly handle Vera’s periods, she just fucking _laughed._

“No, not yet, but it can start about any minute,” he said. “We have pads in the loo at home and when we go somewhere we always pack a few, just in case.”

“Huh.” George held a contemplating look. “I have a feeling she’s gonna be worse than Dave, when it comes to teenage tantrums.”

Paul chuckled and then grimaced.

“Oh God, we’re gonna be incinerated,” he shook his head. “We won’t stand a chance.”

“I love her,” George grinned. “The only woman who’s ever got John under her foot.”

“Indeed,” Paul said, an empty look in his eyes as he tried to save a memory of sweet Vera who was not a fire-breathing dragon yet. “Jesus, Chuck’s gonna learn from her. Oh, Christ.”

George laughed earnestly, earning a glare from Paul who was really starting to feel like just staying up on the roof and never going down. Let John take care of the kids. He was good at that.

“He’ll be like a mini John but with Vera’s determination and fire. Can’t wait to see that,” George nodded to himself, and Paul let out a deep, heartfelt groan.

“God help us,” he muttered while George was lost to another laughing fit.

***~**~***

A few days later, John emerged from the studio. He had finished one work, and was now feeling bloated and in a proper need for some fresh air. Air circulation wasn’t a problem in the studio — the walls were probably built by the same men who had worked on the Titanic, so much they leaked — but the smell of the paint in the small “used to be an utility room” studio was overwhelming, and the space was really limited, and John was really starting to feel like someone had stuck his head into a bottle and then called it a day.

He went into the bathroom to check his face and clothes from the mirror — it could’ve been worse, but John had a bad habit of decorating himself with paint, and he hadn’t been saved from that now either. It was when he fell into that certain state of creating stuff that he forgot he really couldn’t just push his glasses back on his nose with a brush in hand.

He quickly changed his clothes that smelled like someone had poured a can of paint on him, and checked that his cottage hat was on perfectly before heading for the front door. Even though usually he wasn’t much of an outdoor person, now he could really do with a walk — maybe visit the lakeside with Martha? She would love that.

He changed his Crocs into sandals and walked out, and was met with the biggest surprise of his life.

Dave was _reading._

_A book._

_OUTSIDE._

John stared, and stared, and then turned his head to Paul who was lounging in a hammock, reading a book as well. Oh, so had the holiday energy passed already?

When John approached the hammock, he found that it had indeed _not,_ since Paul was reading a DIY book that had some sort of a garden table in the cover. No doubt that he was planning on building, like, another _floor_ or something like that. Had he already run out of other things to do?

God, John loved his man so much.

“ _Paul,”_ he hissed as he got close enough for Paul to notice him and lift his head from the book. “Is that— is that _Dave??”_

Paul raised his eyebrows and glanced at Dave subtly, who just then turned a page. The lad was lying on his stomach on a blanket in the middle of the yard, Thisbe sprawled over the small of his back, resembling a furry water balloon.

“I’m trying to be quiet,” Paul hissed back, “so he won’t notice me and stop doing it!”

“Is it really _him??”_

“Maybe the real Dave’s been abducted—”

“I can hear you two,” Dave called in a slightly bored voice from the blanket, and Paul and John broke into boyish giggles.

“Don’t mind us!” John called, making his voice sound exaggeratedly hopeful. “Just keep on doing what you’re doing!”

Dave rolled his eyes at them, huffed, and then returned his gaze to the book.

“I think he got it from Chris,” Paul murmured quietly, forcing John to lean towards him with his 43-year old ears that had once upon a time insisted on listening to Nirvana at full volume. Then Paul’s eyes swept up and down his clothes, smiling brightly.

“You’re up and out,” he said softly, and John chuckled, not able to resist a small peck to Paul’s lips now that he was already hovering right above the man.

“I got the first piece ready,” he said. “Two to go, and then I’ll be able to sit down a bit.”

“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing all along?” Paul asked with a one-sided smirk and John jabbed at his side through the hammock, making his husband squirm with small protesting noises.

“I was thinking of going for a walk with Martha,” he said and straightened his back. “Wanna come along?”

“Yeah, sure,” Paul said, that fond and loving smile back on his face. “I just need to pee first.”

“That’s a really good point and an excellent suggestion,” John said thoughtfully, rubbing his three-day old stubble. “I might even do the same.”

Paul laughed, and five minutes later they left the cottage, walking hand in hand while Martha ran excitedly from one side of the road to another. No one ever used this road aside from them, and so it was fairly safe to walk in the middle of it. On their left was one of Ringo’s fields, and on their right a bunch of trees that covered another one — the one they always crossed to go to the farm.

“You know what?” John asked when they were relatively far from the cottage, and out of the hearing range of Dave — Vera and Chuck were once again at the farm, and John had started to doubt the kittens actually held them hostile. Lucky bastards.

“What?” Paul grinned, swinging their hands between them, already sporting almost a real beard — it always grew so fast at the cottage that John swore he could hear it when lying next to the man. Or then it was Paul’s hyper-active brain that was coming up with new projects.

“I was thinking that we need to get rid of the kids.”

“ _Huh?”_

“Like, for a day. And then we can have a lot of sex.”

“Ooooh,” Paul raised his eyebrows, and then nodded vigorously. “I’m in. I’m definitely in.”

“So maybe we could like, conspire with George and Ringo?” John asked with a small grin, and Paul nodded thoughtfully.

“Or what if we two say we have to get some tools from Bala, and then just do it in the car somewhere?”

John groaned at the thought.

“Paul, God, no! Do you think my back would handle it in a _car_ anymore??”

“Oh, stop it, we’re young lads!” Paul laughed. “It’s not _that_ tight.”

“I’ll have my head banging against one door and my butt against the other,” John muttered and Paul laughed harder at that, his gleeful voice carrying over the field and probably all the way to the farm they’d soon pass.

“Well,” Paul said through his chuckles, trying to calm himself down. A pity — John loved the sound of the man’s laughter more than anything else in the world, “so if we stick a deal with George and Ringo — we only need like, a couple of hours — twenty minutes for the fuck and then two for the post-cuddling.”

“Only two?” John pouted and Paul chuckled, squeezing his hand briefly.

“Two for cuddling, one for another go?”

“That sounds much better,” John hummed. “So… four hours in total?”

“Four is good,” Paul nodded, and they exchanged small, conspiratorial grins with each other before they called Martha closer to them, arriving to the junction that separated their cottage from the outside world.

There were no cars in sight, but they kept Martha close as they started heading towards the lake. There were two farms alongside the road if one was to continue to the left for some miles, and as such they could sometimes spot someone else than George and Ringo using this road. It was very rare though, and usually the only one driving by would be Ringo with a tractor.

They took the right to get to the lake, and as they passed the farm Martha started running towards it by habit, tail wagging already. Paul and John glanced at each other and shrugged at the same time, their non-verbal communication sharpened to the point.

“Maybe pass by on our way back? We can collect the kids at the same time for tea,” Paul suggested then and John nodded in agreement. They whistled Martha back and the dog ran to them with a slightly confused look, which soon changed into pure excitement when she realised they were actually going for a Real Walk!!!!!

There was a small beach created by the nature nearby, and they headed over there. They never went there with the kids, and Chuck didn’t even know it existed, so that he didn’t get an urge to run there on his own, but when it was the two of them who hopefully knew better than to step into the water and drown, they enjoyed going down to the beach with Martha, just to be near the lake, embraced by the nature.

They sat down on some very convenient stones that were by the water. Martha ran head straight into the lake, letting out excited small barks. She had always been a monster around water.

Paul leaned to the side to lay his head on John’s shoulder, sighing with contentment. He could feel relief radiating from his husband, probably due to him having got out of the studio for a moment. Even though John loved his job (to a degree) it couldn’t be very fun to be constantly stuck with his commissions, as well as individual art works. To Paul’s knowledge, right now John was working on an upcoming shared art project, where several different artists expressed their vision on three different subjects — separation, suffocation, and satisfaction. (The SS, as John had taken to calling the trio while battling against his lack of inspiration.)

John had ended up in the project by being an active member of the Liverpool art scene, even though he had never studied fine arts. He had managed to gather quite a group of great connections during uni, though, and knew pretty much every artist in Liverpool one way or another. And because John was overall very well liked amongst those artists (God knew why), and he _had_ an artistic vision — although his style was different and less honed than that of those who had gone through the fine arts branch — he had been asked to join the project. It would be showcased in Williamson Art Gallery  & Museum later in the autumn, but John had wanted to do his artwork now at the cottage. Paul guessed being apart from the computer and the housework and all that jazz boosted John’s inspiration quite a lot.

“So which one did you finish?” Paul asked after a while of just staring out at the lake, feeling his body and soul be completely at ease. He knew John’s “finished” work was likely to undergo some drastic changes in a few weeks when John looked at his painting again and thought “wow, that’s ugly”, but at least the first stage was done now.

John shifted at his question, wrapping an arm around Paul’s shoulders to pull him closer.

“Suffocation. That’s how it feels in the studio,” John said dryly, and Paul laughed, already anticipating the moment where he was allowed to go into the studio and look at the said painting. He knew John preferred to have all three ready before showing them to Paul, so that he wouldn’t be influenced by Paul’s opinions. Usually he was more than fine asking for it, but with this particular work he felt it should be his vision _only._

(Paul thought his best works were the ones where Paul had helped a bit, though. And they both knew it, but John could be one stubborn being when he wanted to. But Paul’s support was what mattered, and Paul was always ready to smother John with it.)

“So what’s next?”

“I was thinking about satisfaction,” John hummed, turning his head to nuzzle at Paul’s hair. “I might even get inspired tomorrow,” he said slyly before chuckling lightly. Paul joined in, catching John’s meaning very well.

“Well, I’ll be happy to help. But you’re _not_ painting me to hang it into a bloody art gallery for everyone to see,” he warned and John laughed against his hair, his breath warming up Paul’s scalp. 

“That’d be the best painting in there,” John murmured softly, although his tone was heavily undertoned by want. “You, all naked and spent, looking at me with those eyes of yous, satisfied to no end—”

“Like you’d be any worse,” Paul said with a smug smile. “As if me going down on you doesn’t result in the happiest fucking man on the planet.”

“You, or me?” John shot in, and they both broke into giggles.

“Why, both of course?!” Paul lifted his head and they grinned at each other, only a breath separating them from each other. John’s smile turned gentler and he brought up his other hand to stroke at Paul’s almost-a-beard.

“God, I’ve missed you,” he said softly then. “It’s so lonely in the studio. No one to cuddle,” he sniffed dramatically and Paul chuckled.

“Oh, I’ve been just fine,” he said flippantly. “Fixing things.”

“I’ve noticed.”

They succumbed into a comfortable silence, shuffling closer to each other until John ended up pretty much sitting in Paul’s lap, burying his head into Paul’s shoulder.

“I love you,” he muttered once happily cradled by both of Paul’s arms that had wrapped around his midsection. “Haven’t said it today yet.”

Paul hummed, grinning at the man, his eyes sweeping over Martha who was currently jumping around with no worry in the world, already completely wet.

“I did shout it at you while you were taking a loo break, but I guess you didn’t hear,” Paul said, and John burst into chuckles, his body shaking against Paul’s.

“Wanker.”

“Yeah, sure,” Paul laughed, laying a peck on top of John’s wild bunch of auburn hair. “I love ye, too.”


	8. Albatross! ALBATROSS!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter warnings:** Slight swearing, mentions of violence (against slugs), mentions of pasta sauce so good you want to bury yourself in it, mentions of **cannibalism, emotional turmoil, suicide, and albatrosses** , terrible off-key singing, and one evil, EVIL slug (and his minions)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you didn't already guess from the summary, this is going to be one hell of a ride. basically there are several short stories about our favourite family's time at the cottage....... each set several days apart, but it doesn't really matter. there's no time. it's all an illusion. nothing exists
> 
> i've had the chapter ready for like about three weeks (?) but since my dear darling Puck has been unable to read it and give me a green light, it's been hanging in the back shelf for the whole time. it STILL hasn't got a green light from her since she's super busy, but i sort of went over it by myself with the most critical eye ever.... and i'm still a bit unsure about it. that 90's chapter ruined me. i'm just super paranoid that now everything i write is shit since that chapter was so GOOD. so i hope you'll.................. won't hate it. want to burn it. be disappointed. idk. aaah
> 
> also leT ME JUST SAY THAT NO SLUGS WERE HARMED WRITING THIS. also this is dedicated to martin the chicken who has been invaluable in her support and has kept me writing even when i feel like giving up. this is the ultimate thank you. Thank you. ily

There were loud, vague sounds coming from inside the cottage. First a loud bang, then some clattering, and then a huge cracking sound, followed by John’s distinct swearing.

An ominous silence fell and Paul raised a questioning eyebrow at the window he was currently washing, standing tactically so that he wasn’t crushing any of the flowers that had bloomed under the window during their stay there. Hmm. That had sure sounded suspicious.

“Was that Dad just swearing his lungs out?” Vera asked idly from where she was crouched next to the cottage, having been inspecting the several different types of flowers. She especially loved the daisies, and would also use them for deciding whatever important things she had in her mind at the given moment. (Today’s hot takes: “Do ghosts exist” (Yes.), “Are aliens real” (Yes.), and “Should Vera steal the last biscuit John had made a couple of days ago” _(Yes.))_

“Um, I think so,” Paul said and returned to scrubbing at an exceptionally persistent bird poop. “Please don’t remember — and for that matter, _use_ — any of the things you just heard. ”

Vera picked up a daisy that seemed to be on its way to the grave anyway and started tearing off the petals, mumbling  “use… don’t use… use… don’t use…” to herself, although staring at Paul with a wicked glean in her eyes that came  _straight_ from John. Oh, dear, she was  _definitely_ going to use those swears.

(As a Chill Dad, Paul did find it slightly hilarious, but as a Good Dad, he  _had_ to be against it.)

“I’m serious,” Paul said, although failing to sound like he was. Vera stuck her tongue out at him and Paul chuckled, shaking his head. He had already lost that battle.

“A butterfly!!” Chuck yelled from the other side of the yard, crouched next to the field. “Dave!! There’s a biiig butterfly!”

“No, really?” Dave called with a slightly bored voice, staring at his phone while lying in the hammock.

“Come see!!”

“Not now!”

“Daa-aave!”

“Not _now,_ Chuck! ”

Paul sighed. Dave was clearly having one of  _those_ days again, not having spoken a word to Paul and John that wasn ’t either a vague grunt or something rude, and now the mood was clearly so strong that he would get irritated with Chuck in a matter of seconds. Paul knew that the nine year age difference between the two boys couldn’t be easy for either of them, but usually Dave, who was  _supposed_ to be the older, mature one, handled it nicer than this.

“You’re a bore!” Chuck shouted, and then let out a loud yell that had Paul almost dropping his rag, his heart jumping into his throat and almost escaping through his mouth. God — Chuck had sure inherited John’s _lungs._

“It left — it’s your fault!!”

“What??” Dave called back, now sounding definitely irritated. Paul sighed again and Vera grimaced, the daisy in her hand having one petal left — _“use”,_ Paul assumed.

“How is it _my_ fault that you scared it away! ”

“I didn’t scare it away!!” Chuck was immediately full of rage — and sounded like he was on the verge of tears.

“You did, though,” Vera called, having turned away from the flowers. Paul closed his eyes, preparing himself for some proper glaring that this situation required. Usually they — he and John — didn’t interfere much in the disputes between the kids unless it went to straight out bullying the other, which all three occasionally executed. Chuck more so than the others, but he was so young that it was to be expected. 

Paul knew well how it felt like to have a younger brother — or a sibling in general, and  _his_ younger brother had certainly been an arse. Their parents hadn ’t engaged much in the fights between the two of them, and both Paul and Michael had turned out fine, now having a strong relationship with each other. He knew their kids would get there as well at some point — probably sooner than later, and in general they got along well.

Now it was clear, though, that the trio was starting to get slightly fed up with each other, having spent every day tightly in others ’ personal spaces for already a week. Chuck was the exception, not having the capability for such feelings yet, but his childishness (completely justified in Paul’s opinion, since he was a  _child._ But it felt like the other kids were requiring him to be more on their level of rationality and thinking, not understanding that he was still six years old) had raised tensions between the three. It was a bit worse with John constantly in the studio, unable to really engage with the kids … and especially with Chuck, who was used to playing with him on a regular basis.

“I didn’t!!” Chuck yelled. “Dave did!”

“Whatever,” Dave resigned himself from the discussion, having never even put his phone down. Vera pursed her lips together before turning back to the flowers, a frown between her eyebrows.

“He did, though,” she muttered to herself, but loudly enough for Paul to hear.

“That’s not fair,” Paul said firmly with a bit of a judging eyebrow, and dropped the rag into a water-filled bucket with a sigh. Chuck had started crying by the sounds of it. “He just wanted to show the butterfly to Dave.”

Vera pouted, staring at the daisies with a blank gaze. It was clear from her gaze that she thought Chuck to be over-reacting, and Paul shot her a small, meaningful glare, before starting to head towards the other side of the yard. He passed Dave ’s hammock on the way and looked down at him with a frown.

“That wasn’t very nicely done,” he said quietly. Dave harrumphed, but didn’t look up from the phone. Paul decided not to comment on it — Dave would be feeling bad about it some time later, when the initial grumpiness had passed. Maybe. But the lad knew very well that it wouldn’t have been a big effort to go and see the butterfly.

“Hey, hey, little man,” Paul said gently when he reached Chuck, who had curled into a small ball, hands wrapped around his legs as tears ran down his cheeks, his face contorted into that of anger.

“I didn’t scare it away!” Chuck said defensively, not looking up at Paul. “I was very nice!”

“I know, love, but you did raise your voice, and the butterfly probably thought you to be too loud,” Paul said and crouched next to him, wrapping an arm around the boy, and pressed his nose against Chuck’s hair in a small but warm hug. “And don’t mind Dave; he’s just having a bad day.”

“He’s stupid,” Chuck said with a voice that was definitely a pissed off Lennon speaking.

Paul shook his head just as Chuck straightened up and turned under his arm, climbing into his lap. Paul wrapped both arms properly around the boy, sighing deeply again as he stroked Chuck ’s hair softly.

“You can’t say that,” he said. “It’s not nice to call people stupid.”

“Then… then he’s an idiot.”

“ _Chuck,”_ Paul said gently but firmly. Chuck went quiet, just silently hugging Paul.

And then John crashed out of the cottage with his old guitar in his arms, the cottage hat perched on his head, round glasses (that both he and Paul hated; acquired from the estate of Paul ’s grandmother) on his nose.

“ _ONNLYYY YOOOUUU,”_ he yelled in what might have been singing and started playing his awfully out-of-tune guitar that was missing only a couple of strings. Heavens, was that a _crack_ in the sound box? That would explain the noise from before.

“ _Noooo!”_ there were shouts from all of the children and Dave turned to his side in the hammock, covering his ears with a suffering look. Vera dashed away from the cottage, looking disgusted, and Chuck moaned against Paul ’s shoulder.

“Nooo… Daaad! Stop it!!” he yelled right next to Paul’s ear, and John’s wild laughter filled the air. For once Paul was happy about the guitar; it had completely distracted Chuck from what had just happened. Also, _Chuck sure had lungs._ Paul’s ears would be ringing for ages.

The boy squirmed himself out of Paul ’s hold a few seconds later, pressing his hands on his ears and yelling “I’m not listening, I’m not listening”. By the looks of it, Vera wanted to do the same — all the kids hated the guitar from the bottoms of their hearts. It wasn’t the instrument, or even the sound of it though; it was John wielding it.

Paul had to say that he had preferred it when John ’s repertoire had mainly consisted of soft acoustic versions of Nirvana’s songs. But ever since Kurt’s death John had refused to play them, and even though he had put that tragic event well into his past by now, he enjoyed  _much_ more playing cheesy love songs that  _everyone_ else hated. 

“I can’t play anything else”, he’d say to justify the 137th rendition of _Love Me Tender._ Paul knew he could. But John was evil by default in this regard.

“What’s uuuuuuuup,” John sang very off-key once Paul had got up and dragged his feet to the current window-in-process again. Paul grimaced at him and shook his head, pointing at the crack in the guitar.

“What happened?”

“Oh, it fell,” John said in a cheerful tone, and Paul knew it meant that the guitar, that was usually stored on top of their tall wardrobe, had slipped from John’s hands when the man was trying to acquire it. “I’m also missing a few strings!”

“I noticed,” Paul said dryly, but couldn’t help but find the situation hilarious. He knew that John could see right through the slightly judging expression on his face, and he knew that John knew that he knew.

“I was wondering—” John never stopped strumming the awfully out-of-key guitar, half-singing the words from a different key. Paul had been cursed with a good ear for music, and when one lived with John, one indeed wished they hadn’t. He just wondered _how_ could John, who too had an excellent ear, _bear_ singing like that?  “—if George would have more of _theeeeeeem!_ _”_

“Maybe he’d also have something to replace your singing skills,” Paul retorted, knowing very well (and knowing that John knew) that he was also a very good singer, and Paul _loved_ it when his husband sang properly with a proper instrument — not with this ancient relic from the 90’s that had lived at the cottage for the past 20 years or so.

“Suit your _seeeelf,_ _”_ John turned away from him and launched into a cheerfully awful version of _Love Is A Many-Splendored Thing._ Paul grimaced, rolled his eyes, and returned to washing the window.

John ’s manic energy that had risen upon getting the guitar down from top of the wardrobe subsided after a couple of songs of the kids groaning and moaning, trying to do whatever it took to block the sound out. (Chuck had locked himself into the loo inside the cottage, Dave had went into the kids’ bedroom with his headphones on, and Vera was sitting at the kitchen table, reading a comic book with her hands on her ears.) Now the sound of the guitar became softer, but it was still out of key, and John’s singing was still slightly more straightforward and bad, but Paul found he didn’t mind so much. And to be frank, secretly Paul enjoyed every one of John’s antics — otherwise the man wouldn’t be doing them.

Paul ’s fake irritation came to an abrupt end when John suddenly pulled a loud chord that he let echo in the yard, and then…

“Aaarrre youuu LONESOOOOME TO _NIIIIGHT—_ _”_

“ _NO!!”_ Paul yelled automatically from a year-long habit, and John dissolved into chortles, his playing never ceasing while laughter escaped his lungs unrestrained. Sounds of the kids shouting  “Da-ad! Po-op!” echoed from the inside and Paul lost it as well, their shared laughter filling the yard.

From that on (now that Paul ’s true feelings had been caught) they both launched into awful renditions of every cheesy love song they knew (which was a lot), and after the windows were finally sparkling clean, Paul just settled down on the grass next to John, and enjoyed the awfulness of it all.

***~**~***

“ _Vera!”_

“ _Veeera!!”_

“Yeah?!” Vera shouted back towards the open front door while sitting on the floor, pulling on her purple Wellington boots. Her dad soon appeared into the doorway, the cottage hat perched on top of his wild, uncombed auburn hair, tilting dangerously to the side.

“You goin’ to the farm?” he asked and Vera nodded, hoping that he wasn’t asking her to take Chuck with her. He was such a child, and it was tiring to drag him along all the time.

“Great,” Dad said brightly, and then lifted his awful acoustic guitar higher in the air, Vera’s eyes sliding over to it. Ugh, she hated that thing. “Can you collect new strings from George? I sent ‘im a text an’ they’re waitin’ for a pick up.”

“Sure… But why don’t you go there yourself?” Vera raised her eyebrows and Dad grimaced.

“I got to get back to work. But it’d be sweet if ye could fetch ‘em — makes playing this baby a lot more bearable,” he said, waving the guitar slightly from the neck, and Vera had to agree with that — at least it’d make the sound of the guitar a _bit_ easier to stand. 

She finally pulled on her left boot and jumped up from the floor, reaching for her rain jacket. There wasn ’t any rain, but it was a windy day and up here it got chilly pretty quickly.

“Why can’t Dave bring them later?” she asked while zipping up the jacket. “He’s there already.”

“Oh, well,” Dad rolled his eyes. “He said that he _can_ get  ‘em, but he’s apparently gonna sleep at the farm, and I want my strings sooner than by tomorrow evening.”

“How come he gets to sleep at the farm?” Vera asked, jealousy surging in her chest. Dave always got to do what she couldn’t — including _sleeping at the farm._ Just because _he_ happened to be closer to Chris ’ age. It was totally unfair.

“Well, he’ll be sleeping in Chris’ room,” Dad said in a tone that said it was obvious, “and, um, ye’d have to sleep in a guest room, and that’s extra work for George ‘n Ringo. Besides, for Dave it’s about being with Chris. An’ ye already spend the days there, so…”

“It’s not the same,” Vera muttered, pushing past him. A part of her understood that it didn’t really make a difference whether she slept at the cottage and spent the days at the farm, but… it was the _concept_ of sleeping at the farm that made it so fun. Just like she and Dave had used to do sleepovers in each other ’s rooms without permission from the dads, just because it was _funnier._

“Thanks, darlin’ walrus!” Dad shouted after her cheerfully in a way only he could. There was a small surge of warmth in her chest at the unusual pet name; Dad had always called them his “darlin’ walruses” when he was feeling overly fond and loving, just like he and Pop would call each other “pal” in a loving tone. Once Vera had asked “why walruses?” and Dad had said that the word was cute, just like his kids. Vera had started thinking so too, and wished Dad would use the pet name more often. It really made her feel loved by Dad.

She found it difficult to be moody after that, and as she sprinted over the fields towards the farm her spirits lifted, the whole thing with Dave not bothering her anymore. Besides, Dave was super annoying  ‘cos he was constantly putting up a fight with the dads, and Vera didn’t wanna be the same. She didn’t understand why Dave would wanna hit his head against the wall in the way he did even with the tiniest things, because after all, Dad and Pop knew best. If they said Vera couldn’t sleep at the farm, they also had reasons for that.

Probably.

She looked carefully to both directions (first to the right, the Traffic Song echoing in her head) before crossing the road that separated the field from the farm. She didn ’t have to wait long before there was a bark, and Bob ran around the corner towards her, Dylan at his heels. Both wagged their tails at her and she greeted them with kisses and hugs before heading towards the barn, the dogs following her happily before turning away at the wooden door Vera had to push open with all her might. For the nights Uncle Ringo would lock it, but during the day it was always open, and wasn’t as hard to open as the tall, grand doors on the other side of the barn. As such the kids always went inside through here, if the big doors weren’t open.

She looked around, but there was no one in the large, hay-covered area where Uncle Ringo kept all of his fascinating farm machinery, including a red tractor. Vera sometimes got to ride it with him, and it was the  _ best. _ She was slightly jealous that Chris got to do that all the time, and even without permission! And on his own!! Vera couldn ’t wait growing up, so that she too could ride a tractor without anyone else telling her what to do.

She skipped towards the end of the barn where in a separated, smaller room the five chickens of the household resided in whenever they weren ’t outside, having a spacious enclosure. She leaned over their small fence with a grin, waving a hand at the chickens that started clucking the moment they saw her.

“Hi everyone!” she called and they started all heading towards her. She counted them in her head, but one… one was missing—

“Oh, hi,” suddenly there was a voice behind her and her head whipped around to meet Uncle George’s eyes. The man was walking towards them, and in his armpit…

“Martin here has a flu,” he said and pointed at the chicken he was holding. “I’ve been giving him medicine.”

“Oh no,” Vera said and wordlessly held out her hands. George didn’t hesitate one bit before dumping Martin into her arms. The hen looked around with a slightly confused expression, like all chickens always did, and wriggled a bit before she was in a comfortable position. All of the chickens had always been very affectionate towards the humans they knew, and Martin was no exception. And the chickens knew Vera _very_ well, with her spending almost all of her free time with the animals of the farm.

“Is she gonna be alright?” she asked and George nodded with a grin, his slightly uneven teeth bright white despite the warm yellow lighting of the barn.

“Yeah, it’s nothin’ to worry about,” he said, his scouse accent stronger than when he was speaking with Uncle Ringo in the room. “Say, weren’t ye supposed to fetch the guitar strings?”

“Yeah,” Vera nodded, running a hand over Martin’s feather-covered, smooth back. “I heard Dave’s sleeping here,” she pouted, and George let out a soft chuckle.

“Well, that’s the first time _I_ _’m_ hearing about it, ” he said humorously and winked at her, and she blushed with a happy smile. She had always liked Uncle Ringo and George, more than any other adult in her life. They were a lot cooler and nicer than her own dads, too. She wanted a bit to be like them when she grew up, and thought that maybe she’d live on a farm as an adult as well. She loved the animals so much.

“D’ye wanna come and feed the sheep with me?” Uncle George offered and Vera nodded, jumping into action. Carefully she lowered Martin into the enclosure, laying a soft kiss on her head before letting her go. Why she was called Martin, Vera didn’t know, but she knew that his Uncles had a great sense of humour, and it had probably something to do with that.

“Okay then,” George said and offered his hand, Vera grabbing a hold of it. Together they started walking towards the big doors to head for the stall. “And after the sheep are fed, why don’t we two head into the garden ‘n see if yer magic little hands could save my carrots? They’re a bit under the weather.”

“Yeah!” Vera grinned at him and Uncle George smiled back, a twinkle in his eye. She swung their hands between them, a thought entering her head.

“Hey Uncle George, could you maybe take Dad’s guitar away..? I mean, like, permanently.”

George threw his head back and laughed, but he didn ’t answer, and Vera somehow got the feeling that he thoroughly enjoyed it when Dad made everyone suffer with his playing. Just like Pop secretly did.

Hmh. Adults were so mean.

***~**~***

There was golden coloured oat everywhere around Chuck, covering him from everything and everyone. He stood up on his tiptoes and scanned the field as far as he could see. Some time ago he had heard the sound of a tractor, and he knew that he had to keep an eye out in case Uncle Ringo passed by. Dad had talked about tractors squishing small unaware boys if they weren ’t careful, and Chuck knew well that Uncle Ringo couldn’t see him if he was hidden in the crop.

It was a great responsibility, but Chuck was big enough to handle it. He was already  _ almost _ seven. (He had already been six for seven months, so all things considered he  _ could _ already say he was seven years old.)

He would be able to see the cottage if he passed through the line of trees behind him that he constantly kept close, preferring to be able to run back to the safe environment as fast as he could in case something happened. Vera could go really far, and wasn ’t afraid of getting lost, but Chuck didn’t know the fields yet. He had only been here, behind the trees, with somebody else in the past. But now he was brave, and on a  _ mission. _

He crouched down again once sure that Uncle Ringo or any boy-squishing tractors weren ’t nearby, and resumed in what he had been doing — watching a small frog from the distance. Every time the frog hopped forward, Chuck would follow, and that was how he had originally ended up on this side of the tree line. He loved watching the little animals that seemed to pop out from every direction at the cottage. It wasn’t like that at all back home; there Chuck could see a squirrel or two every now and then on their yard, but there weren’t any frogs ( “Thank God,” said Vera, who didn’t like them at all), or bats (“Thank God,” said Dave, who didn’t like them at all), or mice (“Thank  _ God, _ _ ” _ said Dad and Pop, who didn ’t like them at all when seeing them inside the cottage).

The frog seemed to have a certain direction in mind, making his way towards it determinedly. Chuck stood up quickly again to check for the Squishing Tractors again, but didn ’t see any, and got back down — and the frog had disappeared!

!!!

Just like that!

“Frooog,” he called, turning his head in every direction, squinting at the ground. “Mr. Froo-oog?”

The frog didn ’t come back and Chuck pouted. Stupid frog.

…Or… or maybe it was a… a _spy,_ and had escaped Chuck ’s watchful eyes when he saw his moment coming—

“Ooooh,” Chuck’s mouth rounded a little o. The frog was a _spy,_ and he was a spy for— for …

“It’s the Evil Slug!” he yelled, jumping up from his crouch, looking around wildly for a weapon. There would be sticks — now turned into fine swords — amongst the trees. He would need a weapon in an order to battle The Evil Slug!!

The Evil Slug had first appeared a week ago. Chuck had found him amongst the trees, but just as he had been about to stab a stick through it (just as an experiment), Pop had called for him and Chuck had had to leave. And then he had thought that it was way too convenient for Pop to be calling him at that  _ exact _ moment, and that it had to be … the slug had to be The Evil Slug, the most evillest being in the whole world, who could  _ manipulate _ people into doing whatever he wanted!

Chuck had been on a mission ever since, his goal being battling and conquering The Evil Slug, but now his task seemed to have hardened, since the Evil Slug clearly had … had  _ the frogs _ under his influence, working for him to acquire absolute world domination.

It all  _ made sense. _

He turned swiftly on his feet and rushed towards the line of trees, looking around for the greatest sword that was hidden in this  _ deep, dangerous forest. _ He would have to defeat monsters in an order to get it and cross dangerous rivers and climb over objects in an order to get the sword, but he could do it — he was  _ born _ to do it!

So he jumped over logs, scared a bird away that sure was working for the Evil Slug as well, and hopped over a huuuuuuge water puddle (he did land in it, his shoes getting soaked to the bone, but they were already muddy anyway). He battled the shrubs that tried to prevent him from passing by sticking their branches in front of his face, and to gain the perfect camouflage rolled in mud (his clothes were already so dirty that Dad and Pop wouldn ’t mind for sure).

And then, laying there, just where Chuck could already see the cottage, was the  _ Bestest Sword. _

He jumped towards it and grabbed it from the handle, lifting it above his head, imagining applauding people around him.

“ _Yeeeeaaaahhhh!!”_ he screamed with a raw voice. He was the best! He had conquered the Evil Slug ’s dangerous forest!! But the guest had only begun; he wouldn’t rest until he had run his sword through the Evil Slug!!

“Now, _that_ sounds suspiciously like Chuck. Ye there love? ” A warm voice with a humorous tone called out behind him, and Chuck’s head whipped around.

“Pop!” he jumped towards Pop, who was walking towards the Dangerous Forest with a small grin. “Pop, guess what!! I saw the spy frog, and he works for the Evil Slug, and then, then I _defeated_ the _forest,_ and acquired the _Bestest_ Sword!! ” he puffed his chest out and waved the sword around, making swishing sounds, moving like a NINJA!! A hero ninja!!

“Did you? Congratulations,” Pop said, standing with his hands on his hips, grinning down at him. Chuck beamed, feeling even more heroic now that Pop was playing along. He was the best, and the strongest!! “Your sword does look like it’s missing a handle… I think I have the perfect piece for that.”

Chuck looked down on his sword (which was a handsome stick, perfectly round and straight, fitting his fist perfectly, and long enough without being too heavy), and then nodded.

“It will — it will improve the sword!” he said, jumping around again, practising his swings. “It will become the _Bestest Best Sword!!_ _”_

Pop laughed, nodding.

“We’re gonna eat soon, so don’t disappear into the fields before that, okay? I’ll show you how to improve the sword, and then you can do it by yourself.”

Chuck, loving the idea that he was big enough to do something like that on his own, because he was the Best, and the Strongest, and the Biggest, nodded with enthusiasm.

“Yeah! You’re like the old mentor of the, of the _hero,_ _”_ he said excitedly and Pop snorted, breaking into chuckles.

“Yeah!” he then said, sounding just as excited as Chuck. “I’ve _always_ wanted to be the wise old man. ”

“But you’re not as wise as the hero,” Chuck said, jumping out of the Deep Dangerous Forest with his back straight, walking like real heroes do, chest puffed out with his shoulders held high.

(He couldn ’t see Paul hide a smile behind his palm.)

“Of course not,” Pop said, (voice struggling to contain his laughter,) and pointed towards the stone shed. “Can the hero make it to the royal weaponry before the wise old mentor?”

“Yeeeeaaaahhh!!!” Chuck let out the raw man-scream again and then dashed towards the Royal Weaponry, Pop huffing and puffing behind him.

Chuck made it to the shed before the old and panting Mentor, and had never felt Stronger and Better and Bigger and  _ Hero-er.  _ The battle against the Evil Slug had just begun.

But food first!

***~**~***

“…I’ve been reading this really fascinatin’ series,” Chris continued babbling away in his deep, calm voice as he and Dave were crossing the field towards the cottage. The yard was already in their line of sight, and they could see Uncle Ringo with his tractor, the man having stopped right at the border of the crop.

“Is ‘e like, talkin’ with Pop?” Dave squinted after pointing towards the tractor and what looked suspiciously like one of his dads standing next to the tractor, hands on his hips in a relaxed stance, a grin on his face as he nodded along to whatever Ringo had to say. Chris chuckled.

“Looks like it. Tad can’t get enough of yer folks when they’re ‘ere, yeah,” he said and paused, looking like he was planning on something that would have a drastic change on Dave’s life. “I could lend you the first book?”

“Uh,” Dave said, his initial reaction being to decline politely but strongly. But… but he had been reading that one book Chris had given him after Dave had complained about there being nothing interesting to do, since two weeks at the cottage was enough to drain _anyone_ of Things To Do (aside from like, Dad and Pop, who were just super annoying by just, like, _working_ all the time). And frankly, that book hadn ’t been half bad. 

And … Chris said it was good, and Dave trusted and valued the lad’s opinions over anyone’s, so…

“Yyyeah,” he said slowly, not missing the way Chris’ eyes lit up with satisfaction. Huh. Had he joined the “you should read more, y’know” club as well? Were _all_ of their dads conspiring against Dave, and not just his own?? “I’ll give it a read.”

“You will? Great — then we can talk about it, yeah,” Chris grinned at him and Dave really couldn’t find it himself _not_ to read the book now, since it seemed to make Chris happy … and then they _could_ indeed talk about the story, and Dave would be able to impress Chris with an insightful analysis, and that was everything Dave really wanted, _really,_ because he admired Chris _so._

“I guess,” he said, unable to stop feeling a _little_ excited about the idea now. He would just have to do it in a way that the dads wouldn ’t notice, because… then it would be all grins and “oh, Dave has started reading!” and then they’d never stop enquiring about the book, or suggesting new ones. Ugh, no, Dave didn’t want that. This was a one-time thing.

“Oh, hi!” Pop said in that super bright, cheerful, life-is-amazing way of his when he noticed the two of them approaching the border of the crop, coming from behind the tractor. Uncle Ringo turned around in his seat and waved at them with a grin.

“Laas! Finally came outside, yeah?” he called and Dave’s first thought was to scowl and grunt, but Chris got there first with a soft laugh, flattening Dave’s grumpiness before it really started.

“ _Ie,”_ he said.  “My room starts to get boring, so we came ‘ere to play instead, yeah.”

“Of course you did,” Pop rolled his eyes, his smile never leaving his face. He looked so relaxed and blissful that Dave really couldn’t find it in himself to scowl at the slight, although good-humoured jab at the boys spending all their time in front of a screen of some kind. At least the time spent here had done some good on somebody… and when Pop was relaxed and happy, he was less likely to nag. And when he didn’t, Dad didn’t. So it was a win-win.

“Well, don’t let us bother you,” Pop then winked at them and Uncle Ringo chuckled along with Chris. Dave huffed slightly. “Oh, also, John’s taking a well-earned nap so try to be at least a little bit quiet, like. Not that he’ll wake up, mind ye, but uh, don’t drop bombs on the house, like.”

“You’ve seen much of your da?” Chris asked after they had promised not to drop bombs on the house, and left the two adults to their discussion, heading towards the cottage. Dave shrugged and then shook his head, feeling oddly put off by the thought now that it entered his head.

“No… not really,” he said and kicked off his Wellingtons (damn being fashionable — one just didn’t cross the muddy field in trainers). The boots flew several feet before hitting the dresser that was situated next to the front door with a satisfying thud. 

It was only then he remembered that they were supposed to be at least a  _ little _ bit quiet. Except that Dad  _ didn _ _ ’t _ really wake up unless one indeed dropped a bomb on the house, which they wouldn ’t be doing. They’d promised. 

“He’s been in his ‘studio’ for most of the time.”

“Mm… An’ at home?” Chris asked, looking wondering. Dave supposed it was a bit different for them than what it was for Chris, because Chris literally _worked_ with his dads, and would do so full-time after graduating from the upper secondary school, which would be in a year.

“Uh, I guess I don’t see ‘im that much anymore, since he’s workin’ so much,” Dave said, scratching at his cheek as the two boys headed for the TV, Chris switching on the old Playstation 2 they had permanently at the cottage. “Not that I care. I rather stay in me room anyway, so I don’t see anyone, ‘cept for tea.”

“Uhhuh. So…” Chris grinned. “Which one?”

Dave frowned at the game pile the other lad had revealed from one of the boxes that resided under the telly, and pretended to think really hard.

“What about… Sly 3?” he asked then, and Chris’ half-suppressed smile told he wasn’t surprised in the least.

They settled down with a single Playstation controller, ready to start up one of their favourite games. Chris went to put the kettle on while Dave chose the right save file, the one they were playing together (their goal was to play the game through with 100 per cent success … once again). They would each do one mission, and then switch the controller between them.

“I love this Venetian mission,” Dave commented once Chris was making his way back towards the awful couch, two mugs in one hand, the teapot in the other. “It makes me crave for that thug’s mum’s pasta sauce as well.”

Chris laughed and nodded.

“I know right. I’d love to be buried in it.”

“He, too,” Dave grinned with a mischievous look and they both chuckled at the inside joke that one would get only if they had played that particular mission.

“Fortunately it’s a silent mission,” Chris said after having settled down on one of the floor poufs. “’Cos of yer da.”

“Oh,” Dave waved a hand while leading Sly on the screen with the other, his thumb moving from sheer habit, “he won’t wake up even if a bomb dropped on him.”

“Which is good, considering all the alarms we’re gonna set off later.”

They both snickered together and Dave reached for his tea, all the while heading with Sly towards the start of the mission.

“Hey! Are you playing!” Chuck’s voice reached them from the door and Dave suppressed a groan. He was so _not_ in the mood for him right now! Chuck ’s childishness irritated him so much, and he had really been hanging from a thread for the last few days. He could support Vera since they had grown up together and the two-year old age difference between them wasn’t that much of a deal, but Chuck was just super _annoying, all the time!_

“Yeah, an’ it’s not your turn,” he snapped, already anticipating Chuck’s claim that it was his turn, even if it wasn’t, and the boy wasn’t even allowed to play that much either, really. Neither was Dave, to be honest, but at the cottage he was given slight liberations, probably because the dads understood what a _drag_ it was for him to be there.

“Have you played for long?” Chuck asked, coming closer with his shoes still on. Dave frowned at him.

“You gotta take yer shoes off,” he said with an irritated voice, maybe not caring about such things when it came to him and Vera, but with Chuck he just _had_ to say it, making him feel superior to his brother. Chuck, the blert, didn ’t even seem to be listening, instead leaning on the back of the couch, supporting his chin on the backrest — he wasn’t taller than that, and had to crane his neck a little to achieve the position. 

“Did you hear me? Shoes off, or even better, do one!” Dave spat, his tone rising slightly. Chuck stuck his tongue out and Dave almost saw red.

“I’m gonna tell Pop!” he said sharply and Chuck’s eyes turned wide as saucers.

“No! I’ll tell him you were being mean again!”

“I’m being reasonable!” Dave started, voice rising still, but then Chris leaned towards him and patted at his knee.

Dave shot him a look, and Chris raised an eyebrow at him. Right. Dave getting all worked up because of his brother  _ wasn _ _ ’t _ reasonable in Chris ’ mind. What did he know about it anyway, though? He didn’t  _ have _ any siblings.

But the rational part that existed somewhere in Dave ’s mind and not high strung on emotions had to agree that he wasn’t being fair. It wasn’t really  _ Chuck _ _ ’s _ fault that he was too young to understand some things, and was now clearly keeping his shoes on just to spite Dave. Dave had heard Dad and Pop talking about it — how Chuck had started showing small signs of a new negative age and had started testing his boundaries again, as a small replay from the terror he ’d been two years ago. God, Dave wished that wouldn’t repeat this time. Back then Dad had just gone through it by sighing and saying that he mostly had his own genes to blame, and that since he had been much, much worse, he felt he owned it pretty much to the whole world to be patient with Chuck.

“Hey, laa,” Chris then said, seeing that Dave had come to an impasse with his thoughts and feelings clashing together, “if you take your shoes off, you can join us on the couch. I can make give ye a panad, yeah.”

“A panad?” Chuck repeated with a confused expression.

“A cuppa,” Dave said automatically, familiar with the few Welsh words that Chris cultivated in his speech on a daily basis. “Tea, like.”

“And I can play?”

“Um, you’re gonna have to ask Pop,” Dave said, knowing that it was so. He was still feeling annoyed, but it seemed that the kid was going to stick around. At that point it was better to just give up and try to compromise, because otherwise there would be hell to pay. Dave hated it when Chuck screamed, and… that _might_ be enough to wake Dad up, too. 

Chuck pouted, and oh God, Dave could see thunder in his gaze, the sort of  “there is no way in all hell that I’m going to do that, since you are the one suggesting it”, but once again Chris saved the situation.

“Why don’t you offer to make yer Pop a panad, and ask ‘im if you can show ‘im a game? He’ll like that, yeah.”

Chuck considered that for a moment, and then nodded with a sudden bright grin that seemed to light up the room. Ugh, he was so annoying, could change from a little devil to a right angel in the matter of seconds, and the dads had no clue what a bother he could be.

(Of course, Dave didn ’t know that both Paul and John were well aware of this, and were also aware of what a bother  _ Dave _ could be. In general, Paul and John were quite aware of what their children were like, and what the three thought of each other. But that wasn ’t something Dave would realise before having his own children.)

“Yeah, I’ll try that,” Chuck nodded, and then sprinted outside, soon yelling for Pop.

Dave gave a foul glare at Chris, who frowned at him.

“You shouldn’t be chopsing to him so much, yeah,” he said, and Dave guessed ‘chopsing’ meant something similar to talking in a shitty way, probably, because he _knew_ he was doing exactly that.  “He’s jus’ six.”

“I know?? But he’s jus’ so annoying,” he groaned, but quietly in case one of his parents happened to come in right at that moment. “Doesn’t gimme a moment’s peace.”

“It sounds tight,” Chris shrugged, and Dave knew that word to mean… ‘mean’. Like, mean. Evil, like. He huffed and resumed the game, keeping his eyes locked on the screen, Sly now having given the spotlight to his partner in crime, a turtle named Bentley — a genius in a wheelchair (Dave’s favourite character in the game series).

“You don’t know how it’s like,” he muttered, breaking a couple of chairs for sweet, sweet coins.

“Ye can’t say you’d rather be _without_ ‘im,” Chris said, still with that frown, sounding way too gentle and nice for his own _good._

“Of course not!” Dave said, almost rolling Bentley into a trap from the outrageous thought. “He’s our kid! I’d be a complete moron to think so! _Sure_ he can be a pain in the arse, but … but he’s _our kid._ _”_

Chris chuckled, his deep voice calming Dave ’s somewhat raging emotions down.

“Good,” he just said, and they fell into silence, Dave trying to remember a code to a safe without having to look for it — he ought to remember it by heart at this point of his life, having played this particular mission for about a hundred times.

Then, suddenly Chuck ran in, paused to take off his shoes, and dashed around the couch to tug at Dave ’s leg.

“Come, gimme a mug!”

“A mug?” Dave asked, too confused to remember to sound pissed off at his brother.

“Yessss,” Chuck hissed. “Pop is coming! I’m making him a… a panad!”

Dave had to admit that Chuck ’s determined and urgent expression was pretty darn cute.

“…Okay,” he sighed then and put the game on pause, seeing how Chris hid a smile by turning his head towards the screen. Fuck _that_ guy right _there._ “Hang on.”

He got up and Chuck trailed behind him with some sort of an excited seizure going on. He headed for the kitchen cupboards and got out Pop ’s cottage mug that had a faded picture of a dog on the side. 

Weirdly enough, some of Dave ’s first memories in this family were with this mug, Pop showing it to him, pointing at it and saying ‘a dog’. That was how he had learnt that word. The memory hovered in the background of his mind every time he saw the mug, not something he’d think actively, but something he’d be able to reach with just minimum effort. It was a nice memory, reminding him of what his dads had gone through to give him a good life.

He gave the mug to Chuck, who snatched it from him and then did a full 180-degree turn, running towards Chris who was already lifting the teapot.

Just as the tea was in the mug Pop walked in with a large, knowing grin, Martha on his heels (bringing in a terrible amount of mud. The whole white dog had turned  _ brown, _ and the dads didn ’t even  _ care). _

“So! Is my _panad_ ready?? ” he called and Chuck whipped around, pointing at the mug he had placed on the coffee table.

“Come with us on the couch now!” he ordered and Pop burst into laughter. Dave stifled a chuckle as well; he had to admit it was slightly hilarious.

Then he realised that both Chuck and Pop were gonna be sitting on the couch, and made a dash for the best spot. Pop plopped down next to him, not without eyeing at the couch critically beforehand.

“So, what’s the game?” he asked with his usual cheerful tone in full use, showing that he was entirely and thorougly entertained by the situation, as well as honestly interested in the game. That was a good quality in both him and Dad — they were always interested in what the kids had to show. 

He didn ’t get an answer; Chuck climbed onto the couch next to him instead and pointed at the mug with a stern expression.

“Okay, okay,” Pop laughed. “I see I’m totally ordered about.”

He lifted the mug to his lips and took a sip, and then pretended to be rolling the liquid in his mouth like a wine taster before swallowing and offering a big smile to Chuck.

“It tastes just _great,_ love,” he said and Chuck’s face lit up, the two of them grinning at each other in a way that was _definitely_ not a little bit adorable.

“It’s Sly 3, it is,” Chris said, not even trying to hide his slightly smug smile, his eyes drilling into Dave knowingly. Dammit, Dave had been caught smiling at the scene. Embarrassing!

“Sly?”

“Sly Cooper, the devious raccoon” Dave said, nodding towards the screen where he was playing with Sly again, making him turn in his spot so that Pop could see his face.

“Ooohhh, so _he_ _’s_ Sly Cooper!” Pop exclaimed, sounding delighted, and Dave rolled his eyes.

“Uh, yeah,” he said in a tone that said it was obvious, and was well prepared for the bunch of questions Pop launched right afterwards, enquiring about the game and the plot and the characters and pretty much anything, really.

Well, as far as afternoons went, in the end it wasn ’t  _ totally _ awful. Even though Chuck was still super annoying.

***~**~***

Whatever it was that John had waited upon waking up from his short nap, it wasn ’t to find 3/4 of the youth and his husband completely bound by the telly, Paul holding the Playstation controller and trying to smack the villains into the ground (and failing) with the enthusiasm of a six-year old (proved by the actual six-year old by his side, cheering him on).

Huh.

…Well, he might as well join in. He sure was better at Sly than _Paul._

***~**~***

After 16 days at the cottage Paul and John felt it was time to leave. Not because Paul would ’ve run out of Things To Do, or John would’ve completely finished his paintings, but because the children started to remind wind-up toys that were in a constant state of shaking. Dave was barely at the cottage at all, spending every moment with Chris (who was only happy about it), Vera had become short-tempered from not having her own space, especially from Chuck, and was snapping from left to right at every possible little thing, and… Chuck just had too much energy from living like a wild man for the past two weeks, disappearing into the fields and coming back covered in mud, screaming for food. He’d sleep like a log for exactly 9 hours, and then at 7am he’d be back up, scarfing down the breakfast before continuing his adventures against The Evil Slug and his frog minions.

So, while Paul and John would ’ve been comfortable at the cottage for the rest of the eternity, they had to admit that maybe it was time to return to Liverpool before they lost  _ all _ control.

“We’ll be comin’ ‘round soon,” George said, a wide-brimmed straw hat perched on his head, an imitation of John’s cottage hat that would stay on top of the man’s untamed hair until the moment they were back home. “Gotta come ‘n see Da.”

“Uh-huh,” Paul nodded, standing next to him and staring intently at the boot of the car, filled to the brink with tools Paul might need at home and bags and empty water canisters and paint cans and one big, hairy, cheerful dog. He was trying really hard to remember if they had everything (he sure hoped so, because one bag more and they’d have to leave John behind). Vera was already sitting in the car with her phone in hand, Chuck was playing over at the shabby terrace tables, ducking under them and waving his Bestest Best sword at imaginative enemies, and Dave was standing with Chris near the field, a slightly grumpy expression on his face. Paul wasn’t sure whether the look was there by default, because Dave was _supposed_ to be happy to get back home, or whether it was from having to part from his best friend for an amount of time that wasn ’t estimable — at least for the boys. Of course they weren’t hearing Paul and George’s current discussion.

“We also thought,” George continued with a small, wry grin, “that we’d drop by… with er, a new family member.”

Paul stared at him blankly, and then his eyes started widening.

“Oh. Ooooh,” he said and looked around quickly in case John was in sight. They had luck; he was apparently still inside, going through the final check in the kitchen with Ringo blabbering about this and that at his heels.

“Just to warn ye beforehand,” George winked. “But do keep it a secret, will ye?”

“Yeah,” Paul nodded vigorously, a wide smile slowly splitting his face. “Yeah, wow, damn. God, mate.”

George bit his lip, a small chuckle escaping his mouth nonetheless.

“I somehow imagine that to be John’s reaction.”

“No, it’ll be much worse,” Paul couldn’t help but let his smile turn into the biggest grin ever, his lips spreading so wide it hurt his face. God, he couldn’t _wait._

“We’ll look forward to it. Won’t take longer than three weeks, I think,” George said and Paul nodded along just as John came out, accompanied by Ringo who was carrying their coolers. With a final glance inside, John turned to pull the door closed with a little help from Ringo’s farm-shaped muscles. While opening the door from a locked state was a task even Dave couldn’t do, closing it was a complete opposite; all it needed was merely just two grown men pulling at it with all their strength to slam it properly. If the ground didn’t shake, you were doing it wrong.

George pulled Paul into a tight hug while John was locking the now closed door, and Dave and Chris took their cue (having jumped about six feet the air at the sound of John and Ringo manhandling the door), reaching out for a short one-armed hug.

“Chuck! We’re going!!” John yelled and lifted the coolers from where Ringo had left them, heading towards the car with an anxious frown at seeing the filled state it was in. Paul had to admit that it was a wonder; how did they seem to have _more_ stuff with them every time they left the cottage?

“Take care,” George said as he pulled back and the two men grinned at each other before Paul turned to snag Ringo into a warm embrace.

“Thanks again for everything!” he said enthusiastically and Ringo laughed, his deep baritone voice filling Paul’s heart to the brink. God, he was so happy and privileged to have such friends.

Ringo tightened his hold of Paul for a moment and then pulled him at arms length, holding him by the shoulders.

“Till next time,” he winked and Paul gave him a delighted smile, feeling a bit sad from having to part from this wonderful life of seeing their friends every day. Back home the harsh reality would return, although… soon it would get really interesting, if George and Ringo kept their word (which they _would)._

“Yeah. We’ll have a couch waiting for yous,” he said and Ringo vowed him to hold onto that promise.

Five minutes later all the parting beings, humans and animals alike, where inside the car and buckled up, and Paul started up the car, John opening the window to lean into the window sill with his upper left arm.

“See you soon!” he waved his other arm and Vera and Chuck started waving enthusiastically along with him, Dave rolling his eyes at Chris through the window. George and Ringo waved back, and so Paul gave gas to the car, steering towards the small sand road with Ringo’s cheerful _“tata!”_ echoing in the air.

***~**~***

“So, how do we amuse ourselves?” John asked once they had passed Bala and turned to A949, well and safely on their way home. Chuck was snoozing off in his seat, Dave was texting a friend, and Vera was listening to music while staring at the road with a blank expression, that being her only way of containing travel sickness.

“I wouldn’t listen to music, in case Chuck woke up,” Paul said, eyes fixed on the road. John let out an agreeing hum, slouching in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest. For a while he stared out of the window, deep in thought, and then a wicked gleam entered his expression.

“I know!” he said. “Let’s do a puzzle. I got a good one.” His gaze turned sleazy. “One ye don’t know.”

Paul ’s eyes lit up with interest, while Dave let out a sound through his nose that sounded already bored. John turned to shoot him a glance, and then eyed at Vera meaningfully before she dragged her headphones down to hang them around her neck.

“What?” she asked, sounding a bit annoyed.

“We’re doing a puzzle,” John grinned. “Try to solve it before we’re home. You ask me questions and I can only answer yes, no, or irrelevant.”

Vera didn ’t look very enthusiastic, but Paul was glancing at John with a hawk-like expression, ready to take on the challenge, and John settled back into his seat, a satisfied smile on his face. He knew that despite acting uninterested, the children were secretly firing up inside.  They had completely taken after Paul in that regard; give  ‘em a challenge and they’ll gnaw your bones out if it was required to complete it. 

“So, here goes,” John grinned and could almost swear Paul tensed, as if ready for a physical feat. He stifled a chuckle and went on to describe the puzzle he’d once read in a book a long, long time ago.

“So, a man goes into a restaurant that’s by the sea. He orders an albatross—”

“ALBATROSS,” Paul quacked in the voice of John Cleese, and John broke into giggles until there were very distinct sounds of the kids huffing at them.

“Sorry,” Paul called. “I couldn’t help it — it just came out—”

“Sure it did,” John commented. “Nudge nudge, say no more.”

“Daaad,” the sound came in as a stereo with Dave and Vera groaning it from two different octaves but at the exact same time.

“Okay, _sorry,_ _”_ John chuckled. _“So._ A man goes into a restaurant that’s by the sea. He orders an albatross — watch it mate —” he said quickly when it looked like Paul was about to open his mouth again, eyes gleaming ominously, “— and takes a bite… and then he goes out of the restaurant, and kills himself. Why?”

“Woah, John!” Paul raised his eyebrows. “That’s not a 12A puzzle!”

“Oh, it definitely isn’t,” John grinned back and Paul narrowed his eyes at him. John could see his dilemma; whether to proceed and find out why the man killed himself (which Paul wanted to know _desperately)_ or whether to tell him to choose a puzzle that would be suitable for 12 year olds.

Ha. He should ’ve known better than to let John choose the puzzle in the first place. Besides, Chuck was sleeping (the main reason why John chose this particular puzzle), and Vera was almost twelve. And with a puzzle as hardcore as this, the kids were  _ definitely _ hooked on finding out the answer.

He glanced back at them and found them already deep in thought. Then Dave opened his mouth.

“So we gotta find out why he killed himself after eating the albatross?”

“Yeah,” John said. “What happened so that it led to that situation?”

Dave nodded, and then started thinking again. Vera frowned.

“Was the albatross poisoned?”

“No.”

“Was it planned — him killing himself?” Paul asked, voice slightly hesitant but eyes on fire. Oh, John had him wrapped around his finger, and it was _great._

“No.”

“…Did the albatross taste so bad?” Vera asked and all the others laughed, Vera soon grinning along.

“No,” John shook his head with a chuckle. Paul hummed thoughtfully.

“Did he have some beliefs on the bird being cursed?” he asked and John shook his head.

“Nay-yay,” he grinned. “Try again, love.”

“…Was he a sailor?” Dave asked after a small, contemplative silence, and John’s head whipped around.

“Yes! A score forrr Mr. David McCartney right ‘ere!”

“A sailor…” Paul muttered to himself, and John smiled. The game was _on._

***~**~***

“So,” Paul said, irritation in his voice, “so far we know he’s a sailor and the _taste_ of the albatross gave him bad memories, _indirectly,_ and that was why he killed himself, and once upon a time he was in a shipwreck, but the albatross isn ’t part of _that,_ but then again _is,_ _indirectly—_ _”_

“Yeah,” John nodded, thoroughly enjoying himself. Dave looked like he was solving a real hard math problem and Vera’s brain seemed to be on the verge of crashing down, so hard she was thinking. “You about summed it up perfectly.”

“Curses, Johnses!” Paul imitated Gollum’s voice, and John knew he would have a payback for this particularly difficult puzzle later. Hah. He was looking forward to it.

“Just think creatively,” he said lazily, grinning at his husband, and Paul glared at the road like John’s smug face was projected in it.

“Was his beautiful fiancée in the shipwreck as well, and was then cursed and she turned into an albatross, but he forgot about it and it all came back when he started eating the bird, and then he killed himself out of sorrow,” Dave deadpanned from the backseat and both Paul and John laughed.

“See, Pop? That’s creativity. Also, no. No, no.”

“Ah, dammit,” Dave said mildly, but didn’t sound particularly upset about being wrong.

***~**~***

“So… were there others on the far-away island as well?”

“Yeah.”

“…Did they eat albatross on the island?”

“ _No.”_

“Fucking ‘ell, John!!”

“Po-op, you can’t swear like that!”

***~**~***

Paul sulked for the rest of the day, having not cracked John ’s puzzle. Both Vera and Dave seemed to be thinking about it as well, according to the blank stares they gave John, who was enjoying the hell out of it while unpacking everything, from every piece of clothing to the paintings he’d managed to — more or less — finish during their two weeks at the cottage. Martha was ecstatic to be back home, and so were the cats — apparently, with the napping party that was going on in the living room. Chuck seemed slightly down, though, saying that the Evil Slug had never been completely defeated. John sympathised with him and had managed to brighten the boy up by explaining that since the Evil Slug was a slug, all Evil Plans for destroying the world would happen reaaally slooowly; so slowly in fact that they’d be back at the cottage before the world destruction took place, and then Chuck would have a new chance at fighting the most evil being in the world.

Paul made the meal while John went into a park with Chuck and Martha. Both Vera and Dave had disappeared to see friends that had been terribly missed during these weeks, but by the time dinner rolled by, everyone was sitting at the kitchen table, soy lasagne on their plates, accompanied by apple slices as some sort of a replacement for a salad. John and Paul would take the trip down to the centre tomorrow to do some massive grocery shopping alongside looking for a new couch for the cottage, since Paul had finally put his foot down and declared the old one  _ unusable. _ John sort of agreed, because after all, the couch must have already been like a 1000 years old when they bought it 20 years ago.

They were diving into the lasagne, Vera in the process of gushing over the real, actual, real-life parrot her friend had got, 

( “Why can’t we get a parrot, Pop?” 

“Oh, but, we already have one? Sits right there.” 

“That’s Dad.” 

“You wouldn’t notice a difference.”)

when Dave ’s fork suddenly froze in mid-air, halfway up to his mouth.

“Oh. Oh God,” he said slowly, and his head turned to John, eyes widening as John raised his eyebrows blankly, confused at the sudden disgust that was seeping into Dave’s expression. Surely the lasagne wasn’t that bad, even though Paul wasn’t the best of cooks? “Oh, Jesus. Did he _think_ he was eating an albatross on the island?”

John stared at him, and then his mouth cracked into a huge, satisfied grin.

“ _Yes,”_ he said, and Dave let out a disgusted, horrified groan. Vera frowned and Chuck just looked confused, and Paul…

“Oh. My. God,” Paul said, bringing a hand to his mouth before it went limp and dropped onto the table, his eyes widening as he locked gazes with John. “You can’t be _serious._ _”_

John just grinned. Oh, he had a hell to pay.

***~**~***

“I don’t get it,” Vera said after having volunteered to put all the dishes into the machine. Dave, surprisingly, stayed at the table as well, and so only Chuck left, leaving the four other members of the family into the kitchen.

“Well,” Dave said with a voice filled with slight unbelief and disgust. “So the guy was in a shipwreck and ended up on an island with a couple of others. And, while being on the island, he _thought_ he ’d eaten albatross.”

Vera frowned and Paul grimaced, turning to John.

“Was it… Did he eat… was it other people?”

John smiled smugly, and nodded. They were getting it, after a whole day of thinking. John would amuse himself with this memory for years to come.

“Oh,” Vera said and then let out a disgusted sound. “Uuuurgh, that’s awful! How could he say yes to that??”

“No, but see, he _thought_ he was eating albatross, ” Dave said. “Um, did he know he was eating a human?” he confirmed from John, who shook his head. “So he didn’t know, and someone on the island… Hang on, did they kill someone on the island?”

“No,” John said, and once again was a subject to foul glares from the people around him, having come to another impasse after making such drastic achievementsfor a moment.

And then Vera came in with the exact right conclusion, presenting it wrapped up in gift paper with a red ribbon on top of it, making John ’s heart bloom with both mischief and proudness.

“It was a shipwreck,” she said. “So… there must’ve been bodies that washed ashore as well, right?”

John nodded, while Paul and Dave were getting slightly green in the face.

“So he made a suicide after eating albatross in the restaurant, ‘cos he came to the same conclusion as we did just now,” Dave said with an aghast voice and John considered it before nodding. It was more or less what had happened, although they were still missing a few details — like the person preparing the human meat being the chef of the ship… but it was good enough.

“Congratulations,” he grinned, ignoring the disgusted gazes that were shot in his direction. “You cracked it!!!”

“I can’t believe you’d make us — _me_ — go through such a bother just to find out _that_ kind of a story,” Paul whined then and John laughed, Vera and Dave both slithering out of the kitchen now that the puzzle had been cracked.

“It’s all because I love your thinking face,” John grinned and Paul gave him a middle finger after checking that no kid was there.

***~**~***

Paul ’s revenge did come.

“I got a puzzle for you, John,” he said in bed that night with a light, innocent tone, one that had John immediately distrusting him from his sweet, handsome face to his perfect buttcheeks. “Let’s see if you can crack it before we fall asleep.”

“Go for it,” John nodded hesitantly, already slightly fearful. Paul wouldn’t set up a puzzle for him at this time of the night if it wasn’t the sort that ruined John’s sleep.

“So…” Paul’s eyes sprung alive with an ominous gleam, the innocent look was replaced by a devilish grin, and, oh, John was _so_ doomed.  “A man eats albatross and then dies. What happened?”

“…NO WAY IN HELL, PAUL!!”

Paul laughed gleefully, and John turned his back on the man, cursing silently while planning to steal all of the covers.  _ Goddammit!!! _

(He finally cracked it a week later.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHUCK IS PRECIOUS AND MY SON, PROTECT HIM
> 
> **My necessary notes about the Welsh language:**
> 
> _Ie_ \- Yes  
>  _a panad_ \- a cuppa  
>  _chopsing_ \- arguing or saying disrespectful things to someone  
>  _tata_ \- bye
> 
> Also, if you're interested in finding out the answer to Paul's puzzle, just ask ;) ALSO more 5TL fanart (by me) [_here_](https://trash-by-cjd.tumblr.com/tagged/5tl)


	9. (Do Not Mention The Mullet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter warnings:** super amazing shoes that you sure wanna buy for yourself as well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was this chapter finished so fast? How was it possible, you ask? Well, that is BECAUSE I'd been keeping the previous one in a static state where it was ready but not published, and I needed something to do, so... I sort of wrote the next two chapters ready (I've since then changed the chapter order, so the one coming after this isn't complete yet).
> 
> Publishing the next chapter might take a little longer since I'm participating in NaNoWriMo this year, starting from tomorrow, and i aim to write most of the next part for the Hot Series during November! That'll require writing about 3k/a day so don't expect to hear from me until December rolls by; unless I've actually died from writing that unholy amount of words every day.
> 
> But here's a small little chapter that takes place a few days after the family got back from the cottage. Nothing important happens, but... there's someone new I'd like you to meet ;) And it's the little things that count, right? I hope you enjoy it, and please leave a comment if you did! Cheers! <3

John peered at the bottom of Chuck’s trainers, a frown on his forehead. Once he had successfully scratched off all the mud that the boy had managed to gather into his soles during the two weeks at the cottage, he had noticed a big crack that cut almost half of the left shoe’s bottom, and the right had a gaping hole in it. And here John had been thinking all of Chuck’s muddy socks were just him forgetting to put the shoes on before running to the fields.

“Paul, love?!” he shouted, and just at that moment Paul went past him in a flurry to grab a jacket, forcing John to step a bit to the side.

“Hey— there’s—” he started, but Paul dashed past him again, back to where he’d come from, and John could almost feel the wind twirling behind the man.

“Yeah??” Paul called from the office where he had disappeared to, and John heard him rustling something. Cautiously approaching the open door (because one never knew what Paul could get up to), John pushed his head in and found Paul furiously flipping through a photo album.

“What’re ye doing?” John asked, Chuck’s shoes momentarily forgotten in the favour of wondering his husband. Paul threw the album back into the bookshelf and grabbed another one.

“Uh, Mum asked for a good photo of me’n Mike,” Paul said. “And she said it needs it ASAP, so I said I’ll drop by.”

“Why’d she need a photo of ye two?” John raised an eyebrow and Paul let out a sound that was very distinctively _him,_ and that John knew to mean _“beats me”._

“Okay then,” John said, scrunching up his face as he mentally flipped through his inner “Paul”-catalogue. It was very vast. “Er, try 1992?”

“But I look like a balloon in those!”

John snickered and shook his head while Paul stopped his frantic flipping to shoot a glare at him.

“What about those pics from the cottage? Um… 2001? The one where it’d been raining ‘n ye both flipped down on yer arses in the mud?”

Paul looked at him blankly.

“Where you’re all muddy and giving a thumbs up and wear scarily identical grins?” John tried with raised eyebrows, and Paul’s eyes widened slightly before he nodded several times in a row, the movements of his head jerky and snappish. He went on to scramble the said album out and John rolled his eyes with a smile, pulling away from the door. Paul would _probably_ be fine without his help. (Although the man was terrible with the dates. John was bad too, but he tended to remember everything that had to do with Paul. Call it an obsession.)

…Oh, right!

“Hey, Chuck’s trabs are all cracked,” he said, leaning back against the doorframe. “The lad’s got proper holes in ‘em.”

“Really?” Paul stilled for a moment and looked up at John, his hair adorably tousled and t-shirt covered in wrinkles. John had an urge to go over and kiss the man silly, but refrained from doing so; neither one of them would get anything done for the rest of the day. “Ugh, goddammit, Mum, why this, why _now_ _…”_

John chuckled, knowing that whenever Mary requested something, Paul had no choice but to comply. Half of it was due to Mary being such a lovely being that you couldn’t help but want to do everything for her. The other half was the fact that she was an iron lady. When she wanted to get (and have) Things Done, they were Done. The rest of the world didn’t really stand a chance.

“I could take ‘im shopping, go just with the two of us,” John said while Paul returned to the photo album, looking at one photo with a slightly faraway expression. There was a smudge in John’s glasses right where the photo was; he had no idea what it could possibly contain.

“Yeah, do that. I’ll ask if Vera wants to come with me.” Paul said with a slightly absent voice, completely drowned in the album by now. John lifted his glasses slightly so that the smudge moved, and could make out his own face grinning at the camera. Huh. No wonder Paul seemed occupied.

“Are ye seriously sighing after a 30-year old me when the real deal is standing right ‘ere?” John asked with an amused tone, and Paul jumped a bit, glancing back at him.

“I mean… yer hair was doing that nice curl on yer forehead that day,” Paul said with slightly red cheeks, but he did shot John a complimentary glance. John raised an eyebrow with a deadpan expression, and then lifted a finger to curl it around a few strands of hair, twirling them until they popped off his finger and curled against his forehead, just like in the photo he imagined.

He gave Paul a questioning look, and Paul chuckled, nodding.

“Perfect. That’s the man I love.”

“I knew ye didn’t really care about _me,_ _”_ John sniffed dramatically. “It’s just me hair. Do you have a hair kink, Paul?”

“Only when it’s attached to _your_ scalp,” Paul shot back, and they both chuckled together, warmth blooming in John’s chest. He started to feel a familiar itch in his skin — he needed to get Paul to bed before tomorrow rolled by, and judging from how Paul’s eyes lingered on him, he wasn’t the only one with the thought.

“Well… We’ll see you guys later then,” John grinned at his husband, who nodded and finally broke the eye contact, freeing John to turn from the door to go and call after Chuck.

“Hey,” Paul suddenly said before he had managed to take two steps and the man appeared behind him, even startling him a little. Wow, Paul really had some sort of a lighting speed mode on, didn’t he? “Why don’t you call Amy?”

John gave him a questioning eyebrow, and Paul flashed him a big, shining smile.

“You don’t have a sense of style, pal,” he said lightly and John gasped dramatically, bringing a hand to his heart.

“Outrageous!” he called while Paul broke into giggles. “I’m telling you, Mr. McCartney, that at least I don’t use my father’s baggy outfits from the 80’s!!”

“That’s only at the cottage!!”

“80’s is _so_ out!”

“Oh, shut up,” Paul laughed, leaning close enough to peck John quickly on the lips, leaving electricity in his wake that bloomed in John’s stomach, heating his veins from inside out. “I know what _you_ were sporting when you were 14.”

John lifted a warning finger while turning towards the stairs to escape the foul seductive ways of his man. He had shoes to buy, for God’s sake!

_“Love—_ you _promised_ that you’d never mention those photos as long as we live.”

“A _mullet,_ John—”

John ran upstairs with his hands on his ears, Paul’s laughter following him all the way into Chuck’s room.

***~**~***

Since Paul was (sort of) going into the direction of the centre anyway, he agreed to drop John and Chuck in front of Deichmann before heading to his parent’s nice semi-detached house with a white picket fence and admirable flower beds. Once in front of the shoe shop, John planted a thankful kiss on Paul’s lips (to give back some of those hot spikes that would live in his stomach until… _something_ happened) before jumping out of the car, Chuck trying to haul the backseat door open even when it was too heavy for him. Vera leaned over from where she was sitting in the middle, and opened the door for him.

“Ta-ra!” John waved after them, Chuck following his example, and then they turned towards the shoe shop, John squaring his shoulders. One never knew what shopping with kids would bring; it was a bit like marching into a battle you _thought_ you’d win hands down, but might unexpectedly suffer an utter and complete defeat.

“Right,” he said and offered a hand to Chuck, who took it with reflexes implemented deeply into his subconsciousness. (Now, after years and years of constant forced hand-holding in public places, the boy didn’t even question it. But oh, it had been a completely another thing when he was two (John had battle scars to prove it).) “Here we go!”

“Here we go!” Chuck echoed adorably (forcing John to suppress an urge to snatch him up and shower him with kisses), and they entered the shop — only for the boy to freeze momentarily.

“Amy!!” he then yelled and dashed forward towards a beautiful brown-haired woman, who was currently eyeing at a couple of high-heels with a critical eye. At Chuck’s exclamation she lifted her head and her expression brightened, her face melting into a sparkling, large smile as she turned her back on the shoes and spread her arms.

“Well, if it isn’t the light of my life!” she exclaimed, her smooth and calm voice still holding the same youthful energy that had once upon a time attracted half of the uni students in Liverpool to become her eternally loyal pawns. She grabbed Chuck into her arms, lifting him up for a hug before she started pestering his cheeks with kisses, and John started heading over to the lovey-dovey couple with a wry grin on his face.

“He likes ye more than he likes us,” he said with a dramatical, sad voice, wiping an imaginary tear away. Amy laughed, spreading one arm to receive a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek from John.

“Don’t be silly, love,” she scoffed, warmth pouring from her with a certain sense of her taking no nonsense from anyone, especially from the Lennons. John had always admired that about her.

Truthfully it was Amy, a former communications student from the same university Paul had gone to, who was the light of everyone’s lives — including John and Paul’s. She had been extremely popular in uni just by being her lovely self, and that vast network and ability to attract people around her had spread into her line of work. She had worked for the _Liverpool Echo_ for years, and had since then somehow ended up as a broadcast writer for various radio programs (including BBC), occasionally doing her own broadcasts on Soundcloud as well. She had always had a knack for writing and performing in front of others — back in the uni she had been the one to lead the theatre club.

Since Paul had been part of the club, they had got to know each other and become fast friends. At the same time she hung out with the same artsy bunch John did, being friends with John’s good mate Stuart, and so she had woven herself into their lives as well, taking no prisoners in making them her loyal, adoring servants.

The best thing about her though was that the adoration usually went both ways. That had been proven by her offering herself as a surrogate mother to John and Paul’s third child.

John doubted he’d ever forget that particular conversation. He and Paul, sitting in a cafe with Amy, off-handedly mentioning that they were considering of getting a baby, and a _biological_ one… and Amy immediately putting her foot down and more or less _insisting_ that she would be the surrogate mother. She wouldn’t hear any complaints from them, and once John and Paul had finally (after painstakingly long weeks where all they did was basically sit around and look at the house and say aloud “a baby on a baby mat in that corner would sure be nice”) come to the life-changing decision, they had contacted her and enquired whether she’d still be up to it.

Yes, she was.

John was the one to give the sperm, since Paul’s name would be first in the baby’s surname, and therefore more used. And that was how Chuck Riley McCartney-Lennon eventually came to be.

Chuck spend time with Amy a couple of times a month, and knew that she was his mother — but for him, the meaning of ‘mother’ was a cool, nice lady who always took him out to eat ice cream, rather than what the word would mean in the general sense, and to many others.

“So,” Amy grinned then, turning towards the department for children’s shoes. “New shoes, eh?”

“Yeah,” John nodded, falling into a step alongside her. “We just came back from the cottage, and I discovered he had gaping holes in ‘is trabs. An’ here I thought all that mud in his socks was just from _not_ _wearing_ the damn things!”

Amy laughed and Chuck giggled in her arms, soon wriggling away in an order to run towards a pink pair of trainers that had princess Aurora (Chuck’s favourite right after Mulan, who was super badass) in them.

“Dad! Dad, look!” he said and pointed at the shoes. “I want them!”

“I almost could’ve guessed that,” John said with a humorous tone and Amy laughed.

“How about we just gather a bunch of boxes around here,” she said and motioned with her hands a rather large area of space, clearly On The Case, “and then go through ‘em?”

“Sounds good to me,” John nodded. “Hey Chuck! Hold yer horses! Get yer shoes off!”

It became a chaos pretty quickly after that. One of the shop assistants came to help them, talking to Chuck in a posh voice like he was the King buying new shoes, much to the boy’s delight. He was at that age where he desperately wanted to make his own decisions, despite knowing that his parents might have known better, and Paul and John (having gone through quite the literal hell with a six-year old Vera’s mind Made Up) were doing their best in creating the illusion that Chuck was making his own choices. So while he was being charmed by the shop assistant and trying on the princess shoes, John and Amy ran around the kids’ department, grabbing shoes that _they_ thought were good, and would then leave it up to Chuck to make the final decision.

“Oh, those are fancy,” John commented roughly some twenty minutes later when Chuck tried on purple shoes with silver starts in them, and each time the boy took a step rainbow-coloured lights flashed in the sole. “Let’s send a pic to Pop, shall we, nugget man?”

Chuck jumped on his feet, proudly showing off the shoes while John took a quick photo on his phone and proceeded to send it to Paul on Whatsapp. He didn’t need to wait for long before Paul sent back a thumbs up emoji.

“Well, at least Pop approves, that’s already something.” he said. “Do they feel good?”

“Yeah!!” Chuck said and walked around a bit, just like Amy had shown him to do. He sprinted to the other side of the shop and came back, almost crashing into a pile of shoe boxes while admiring his flashing soles. “I want ‘em,” he proclaimed, rather unnecessary, and John frowned, trying to think of any objections. It was good if he couldn’t come up with any; that would mean the shoes were not completely terrible.

“They do look better than any of the shoes you chose,” Amy said thoughtfully and John shot her a glare to which she responded with a beaming smile.

“You saw them first, ‘s what ye wanna say,” he said and she chuckled.

“You snooze, you lose. What do you think?”

“I think… I mean, they won’t last long, since he’s growing up so fast, and the lights will fade out quite soon, but… they _are_ fancy,” John said, putting his hands on his hips as he thought about it. Yeah, they wouldn’t be a bad choice at all, and Paul had approved them as well… And John sort of liked the rainbow-theme going on there, along with the stars and other shit. _And_ Chuck seemed to be completely in love with them, now posing like a superhero to all the shop assistants who were watching him with wide smiles.

“I think we’ll take ‘em,” he finally said after a small bit of hesitation — but really, what harm could it be, since Chuck was so happy about them, and they weren’t bad shoes by no means… _and_ if they were, Chuck would overgrow them anyway by the time next summer rolled by.

After paying for the shoes, John took the whole lot into a nearby cafe, slinking into the background while Chuck told excitedly everything about the Evil Slug and his frog minions to Amy (a story John was thoroughly amused by, and enjoyed hearing it over and over again). He was glad they could have Amy in their son’s life as well, offering just that small bit of motherly love he might have needed.

John knew their kids weren’t missing out on anything, especially not on parental love — which John and Paul offered plenty, but he did believe that every child needed a good role model of the opposite sex in their lives — whether it was a parent figure or a cool aunt (like Amy), they were altogether crucial in teacher the child to respect all the genders.

John knew from first-hand experience how important that was, and how the example set by him and Paul was the most influential. John had grown up in a family where his father treated his mother (and John) more or less like the scum of the earth, and then after his parents divorced his mother had remarried to a gentle, caring guy who respected her and her choices. John had realised how wrong his dad was in his treatment for women, and had started wondering whether he had grown up a bit biased as well… and so after a conscious effort he had managed to make himself better, having reached a point where gender didn’t matter at all.

(Hey, he wasn’t bisexual for nothing. Ha ha.)

John thought they were doing a good job with the kids in that regard. He at least hoped so… and having Amy was definitely helping. Vera and Dave adored her as much as Chuck did, and especially Vera seemed to look at her with hearts in her eyes. Amy was always so vibrant (now too wearing some sort of a flowery vintage dress, a large-brimmed yellow hat and red high-heels), and so in _control_ of every person in the room. However, she didn’t do it in a mean way, or even consciously. She would just plant herself in the middle of the couch and start talking to the nearest person, and somehow everyone would start gathering towards her, feeding off on her gentle, human-snatching aura.

John had often wondered if she was some sort of a supernatural being, because for her to be able to do it in any situation, whether she was in a church wearing a half-transparent shirt, or in the uni restaurant in the middle of hungover students who just wanted to die… there was some magic involved there for sure.

Considering that John seemed to apparently (according to some external, husband-ish sources) do the same (Paul didn’t count, because he gravitated towards John just in general), it would be a miracle if Chuck didn’t become the world’s Most Favourite Person.

“…And, and, and then I uh, then I got the— the _Bestest Best Sword!!_ _”_ Chuck exclaimed loudly, swishing his hand in the air to demonstrate having the sword in his hand, and Amy made an astonished face.

“No, really?? I want to see it right away!” she said and Chuck pouted at that.

“I ‘ad to leave it at the cottage,” he said. “Pop — he’s the wise old mentor—” _Hang on,_ that was the first for John to hear about _that_ _…_ what was he then?? The court clown? Probably, if Paul had a say in it. “—said that it’s safe in the royal weapondry… that is, it is, that is the shed, but it’s a royal weapondry now.”

“Weaponry,” John corrected a bit absent-mindedly, sipping at his tea.

“Weapondrry,” Chuck tried, and then was in the middle of repeating the word with Amy, both of their voices rising comically until they were shouting “weaponry” at each other. If Amy’s listeners could only see her now.

That thought in mind, John snapped a couple of photos of the situation, ending up with some pretty hilarious stills of the expressions on Chuck’s and Amy’s faces. He sent the best one to Paul, adding a question about what was happening and how was Paul doing, because John was already missing him and would have preferred to spend all this time with him rather than with Amy and his son, because he was sappy and slightly obsessed with his husband. (In a good way.)

_‘Mum’s thinking of making a photo album for dad’s birthday,’_ Paul wrote back and John raised his eyebrows. So that was what the whole ruckus had been about. But one would think that Mary had enough photos of her boys, right?

Or maybe not — the family might not have thought of having such things as a camera back in the 70’s-80’s. In these days a ton of photos was a _norm_ _…_ Not so much before.

(John, having been born into a middle class family as an — _eventually_ — adored nephew and son, had unfortunately plenty of photos containing him and some questionable fashion choices, altering in every damn picture. He’d rather prefer having those photos _exterminated,_ but Paul _loved_ them, and John _hated_ him.)

But _hang on —_ hadn’t Jim’s birthday passed already??

_‘??? it wasn’t yet?’_ John wrote, Chuck now imitating the sound that the Evil Slug would let out upon being impaled by the sword. Huh. John hoped the boy would never find the poor slug that had caused all of this. Or any slug for that matter, because the slug’s original identity most likely didn’t matter.

_‘No. I mean yes it was but we didnt celebrate it. First was Gin n then they left to France. M has a party planned for when Gin gets out of the hospital.’_

Ah, good old Aunt Gin — Jim’s sister and John and Paul’s absolute favourite from all of the baby boomers in the _world._ She had unfortunately stepped on her grand-children’s toy car, fallen down with a spectacular crash, and had broken a hip as a result. And since the old man Jim loved his family more than anything, it made sense that he would’ve postponed the party. Somehow no word had been passed to John, so it was no wonder he hadn’t remembered the whole “birthday” thing.

_‘When’s that?’_ he asked, leaning his elbow on the table. He wondered if he was getting foul looks from nearby tables for his terrible parenting, with him being on his phone while his son was at the table as well, but… Well, Chuck was occupied. He was being a good husband! Keeping the relationship alive and all that. (And he missed Paul. Just a bit.)

_‘In a week, so prepare ;)’_

John chuckled; one indeed needed to be ready for a house full of McCartneys. Fortunately John had one of those houses for himself, and as such had no problems at all!

(He _wished.)_

_‘I’m ready as we speak,’_ he texted back, grinning.

_‘As if.’_

***~**~***

To go back home they needed to take the bus 10B from the Queen Square bus station, and Amy walked them there, hugging both as a goodbye before Chuck dragged John up to the second deck of the bus, managing to plant them in the front seats with an excited grin. The lad had almost fallen on his face about ten times on the way, too occupied to stare at his amazing shoes to pay attention to where he was going. Fortunately the policy for holding hands was _super_ deeply implemented.

_‘He’ll be sitting at the back in a few years,’_ John thought to himself with amusement as he watched his son while settling as comfortably as he could for the 20-minute ride. Sometimes the kids — Dave especially — complained that they lived so far from the centre that they might as well be called Wools (now, what on earth were they talking about? _That_ line was still several miles further. How _dare_ they imply that _John_ would raise his kids as _Wools??)._ For John and Paul, it had been a question of price; when buying their house back in 2002 the area had been much cheaper than anything closer to the centre. Since the upcoming children (the amount still unknown, but at least two) had been the driving force behind the purchase, Paul and John had found the neighbourhood of Knotty Ash a calm and good environment for raising them, and hadn’t regretted the location of the house one bit. Not even when Dave was having his hissy fits. (Besides, most of his mates lived in the same area, so… he couldn’t complain, not _really.)_

It was a five minute walk from the bus stop to home, and while normally Chuck might have complained about it a little, now he was all too content staring at his new shoes, fascinated by the colours. He would take an unexpected sprint (keeping John on his toes) and then jump as high as he could, watching how colours burst out of his soles upon landing.

At least it wouldn’t be a problem to get the boy out for a walk with Martha.

The moment John opened the front door, Chuck sprinted inside, yelling for Vera. When he realised Vera would be at the grandparents’, he opted for Dave, who relatively soon dragged himself halfway down the stairs at Chuck calling his name urgently.

“Look at me shoes!!” Chuck shouted, bursting with excitement, and John was happy to see that even Dave couldn’t hold back a smile at the sight.

“Wow,” he said, sounding much nicer and warmer than he had in days. “I’m jealous. They’re sound!”

“I know right!” Chuck jumped on his feet, completely out of his head by now. John smiled fondly, shaking his head.

“C’mon, little man,” he said, fishing his phone out. “Let’s send a photo to the Multifamily.”

The Multifamily was a shared group on Whatsapp between Paul, John, Paul’s parents and John’s mum, where they shared photos and informative messages. John’s aunt Mimi, who had had an active role both in John’s upbringing as well as helping with the children when they were small was there as well, but she rarely appeared in the conversation… she was more of a lurker who sometimes said something slightly brusque — not meaning anything by it, since that was just the way she spoke.

John’s dad had never been part of the group, and never would be. The communication between John and his dad happened more by calling, and John was happy about that, feeling like using texts would give his dad too much control over the amount of discussions (if he called, John could always not answer, but the texts he would see). Maybe he’d send a photo of the new shoes, though. He was sure his dad would appreciate that, even though he wouldn’t _say_ anything, being of the generation who had grown up listening to the war stories of his dad, and had never learnt how to express his feelings — and then they’d come out in a drunken explosion.

Chuck whipped around and made a Usain Bolt pose, and Dave’s chuckled in the background while John snapped a picture, soon sending it forward.

“Great,” he then exclaimed, kicking his shoes off. “Lunch, anyone?”

“Yeah,” Dave said. “I’ll be down in a minute, like.”

“Splendid,” John grinned and breezed past Chuck, patting the boy on the head. “Shoes off, love.”

Chuck pouted but did as asked — although John had a feeling he’d be more than willing to go for a walk later.

***~**~***

“We’re home!” Vera shouted from the door upon opening it, which was entirely pointless; Martha had alerted the whole household to their arrival a minute earlier. She was now sweeping the floor at Vera’s feet, completely drowned in her OHMYGODIT’SYOUITHOUGHTI’DNEVERSEEYOUAGAIN which took place pretty much every time someone did as much as come through a door. Any door. The bathroom door was the _best._ Also, as far as Martha was concerned, John’s office could’ve as well been a pitless monster that he had to fight every day for hours, and as such they joy became overflowing whenever he actually came out through that door, alive and breathing.

(John pretty much agreed; sometimes it did feel like he was battling monsters in there. If a blank paper could be considered as such.)

“Vera!” Chuck yelled from upstairs, where he and John had been playing in his room. John had merely sat on the ground with his legs crossed and pointed out some weak points in Chuck’s current (acted out) plan of destroying the Evil Slug, and Chuck had ended up hitting John around the head with a small green foam tube that had served as the Bestest Best Sword for illustrating purposes.

As soon as Paul’s voice joined Vera’s (more like a huff and a puff, trying to get past front door with Martha trying to smother him), Chuck sprung up on his feet and sprinted out, only leaving a small whirl of wind behind him in what reminded John of Paul this morning.

_“Guess what, what I got?!”_ he was soon calling in the stairs, and John let out a content sigh, stretching his neck with a small smile. He just hoped…

_“Wow,”_ Vera said, and sounded immediately jealous. _“Why couldn’t I get shoes like that?”_

John huffed out a laugh. His girl was sometimes so predictable, bless her.

_“Ooh, I’m so jealous,”_ Paul’s voice was decorated with glee and Chuck audibly squealed. John wondered whether he should be getting up, but… it was so nice to be sitting down… and he was old and tired and all…

_“Yeah, look! Look— and when I jump—”_

_“Ooooh.”_

There was some slight ruckus for a few moments with the habitual sound of Paul jumping around in the kitchen, opening cupboards and putting away the groceries they’d apparently picked up on the way, chattering away with Chuck about how nice Amy was while Vera joined the discussion to inquire when could she go shopping with Aunt Amy? Then the sounds softened and calmed down, and soon John could hear Paul’s feet padding softly against the wooden stairs while Vera and Chuck continued talking downstairs, having moved onto a topic called How Amazing Would It Be If Martha Had Shoes Like That?

“Here you are,” Paul called with a smile from the doorway and John twisted his head around, giving his husband a lazy smile with a small hum.

“How’d it go?” he asked while Paul leaned into the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Good, good… I complained my heart’s fill to Mum about the couch at the cottage,” Paul said and they both chuckled, John nodding along.

“I think ye’re right about it,” he said. “We should look into getting a new one, definitely. Got anythin’ in mind?”

Knowing Paul, he would.

“Um,” Paul tried to look nonchalant, but a small blush rose to his cheeks anyway, a knowing look in his eyes as he met John’s (knowing) gaze, not able to escape the (knowing) raised eyebrow John shot his way. “I might. Er, I mean, um, I did go through IKEA’s catalogue this morning…”

John chuckled.

“Knew it,” he said softly and Paul grinned at him before ducking his head slightly, rubbing one foot over the other. God, he was adorable. John couldn’t wait for the kids to go to sleep — today was destined to be a fun day for little Willie down there, and according to the lazy but hot gaze in Paul’s eyes, he agreed.

It really was the best feeling in the world; knowing that they were sharing the same mind, the same feelings, and those feelings being that of utterly ridiculous love and need.

“Well, let’s look at ‘em tomorrow,” John said, starting to get up with a small exhale. Ugh, he really ought to do more sports if getting up from the floor was this difficult. “Today I don’t feel like doing anything…” He sing-a-sang and Paul whistled the following notes from Bruno Mars’ _The Lazy Song_ that they both knew all too well. There had been a time when nothing else had played in the house, despite that _one_ bit in the words that both Paul and John had hoped the kids wouldn’t understand, so to speak. _(Throw my hand in my pants/Nobody's gon' tell me I can't)_

“Okay, so, you cook, what’s for tea?” Paul asked then and clapped his hands together, and John groaned before succumbing back to the floor.

“Is it really my turn _again?_ _”_

“If you don’t wanna eat pasta bolognese again, since I can’t do anything else,” Paul said seriously before cracking a smile, offering a hand to pull John up. John let him and for a moment they stood facing each other, small smiles grazing their lips, fingers wrapped around each other, and John almost leaned in for a kiss now that the kids weren’t there to see, but then…

_“And_ if you don’t want me to send those 80’s photos to Mum. I’m sure she’d love ‘em.”

_“God!!”_ John exclaimed, pushing past Paul to escape into the stairs as quickly as possible. “That’s _so_ not fair!! You never had that phase!!!”

“Oh, love,” Paul’s light voice, shaking from withholding his laughter, reached his ears while John hopped the stairs down at maximum speed, hoping to get into the kitchen and start banging the pans before Paul managed to remind him more of those few unfortunate years in the 80’s. _“All’s_ fair when you’re doomed to be in love with John Lennon.”

John had to admit that Paul did have a point, there.

***~**~***

“By the way, ye sure hit a jackpot with those shoes,” Paul said that night when they were _finally_ getting ready for bed. Chuck and Vera were already in their rooms and hopefully asleep, while Dave was taking a shower. Hopefully he’d find his way to bed soon as well, or otherwise they’d have a grumpy teenager to deal with in the morning. The lad might have tried to be cool and adult by staying up late, but in truth if he slept under 9 hours… _Hell_ would be released and all that, so John and Paul really preferred having him asleep by 10.30PM.

“You think?” John grinned, sitting on the bed to pull off his jeans. He watched through his thick-rimmed glasses how Paul’s smooth back came into his sight little by little as the man undressed himself, his t-shirt thrown on top of a chest of drawers.

“Yeah, I’m almost jealous,” Paul threw him a smile over his shoulder and John chuckled, nodding along. Yes, Paul was _definitely_ jealous, always having had a small fond spot for such wacky things as flashing shoes with rainbow colours and stars. John couldn’t blame him, but was still slightly glad that usually Paul restricted wearing those flashy things to Christmas, in the form of literal christmas lights he’d drape over himself casually.

“I don’t know about you, but I’d totally be able to pull those shoes off,” John said idly anyway, waiting for Paul’s response with a knowing expression.

“Hooo! Wanna bet??” Paul’s head snapped around and he looked at John challengingly, eyes narrowed while his good-humoured gaze swept over John from habit, taking in his half-dressed state. Yum. That was a nice flash of lust in his eyes, right there.

“Sure! What’s the stakes?” John’s smile turned wolfish now and Paul pondered it for a moment, his dark gaze stopping upon John’s thighs.

John shuddered.

“A romantic dinner at a restaurant and a pub night,” Paul said slowly, and then flashed a smile. “Ye loose, ye pay.”

“We got a shared account!” John said, already in board with the idea, laughter bubbling in his chest at the thought.

Paul burst into small giggles before finally coming towards John like a bull, tackling him on the bed. John oomphed before managing to roll them around, flicking at Paul’s nose with his tongue after having conquered the man.

“It’s all about—” Paul then said between his breathy chuckles, hands already weaving themselves into John’s hair, “—who has the card.”

John cracked up, and finally, _finally_ their lips met, Paul laughing into his mouth. God, John had been waiting since the _morning!_

Paul mouthed at his lower lip slowly and his hands slipped down to John’s neck to hold his head in place gently. John hummed softly in response, sighing happily as he opened his mouth against Paul’s lips, the man’s tongue slipping inside his mouth without hesitation with a small, delighted sound.

They kissed lazily until John felt light in his heart and heavy in the pit of his stomach, and he pulled up after laying one more peck on his husband’s heavenly soft mouth, Paul’s lips following his as far as they could.

“Seriously though — I’m gonna find and order such shoes tomorrow,” Paul said in a warning tone, raising an eyebrow at him, and John smiled naughtily, hands starting to roam downstairs to those parts of Paul which belonged only to _him,_ and _no one else._ (Paul had them on a temporary loan every time he had to use the loo.)

“See that they’re extra sparkly,” he said, and Paul’s next answer was already slightly less coherent, with John reclaiming his property with speed and skill. While Paul was busy moaning, John wondered whether soon the whole family would be sporting sparkly flashy shoes.

He somehow wouldn’t be too surprised, knowing the lot.


	10. Not Divorced Or Anything, Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter warnings:** teeth-rotting FLUFF. THE MASTER FLUFF CHAPTER. CUDDLES!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though this is a relatively short chapter (listen to me speaking, 6k = relatively short? somewhere someone is weeping, and that someone is me) it took me a while to write it, mainly because of nanowrimo that i FAILED. Well anyway, I got like half of the new part to the Hot Series written, so it'll be published eventually. One day. ONE DAY. BUT yeah that's the reason this took long. Also I kept writing OTHER 5TL chapters instead of this one, because I needed drama to balance all the fluff in this. But at least they'll be out faster, haha
> 
> Because yes. All heil the Master Fluff Chapter, because this is it. this is that chapter. The Cuddle Chapter. Originally inspired by [this ask](http://chut-je-dors.tumblr.com/post/179447023989/5tl-john-and-paul-seem-to-do-a-lot-of-cuddling-so) I got, and the idea was just too fruity to let it sit around. So here you are. The Ultimate Fluff Chapter. Keep a bowl ready for your rotting teeth, because this is a sugary ride. Hahaha
> 
> I wanna thank my new beta [frogchorus](https://thefrogchorus.tumblr.com/) for precious help with the British culture and all language problems! As such this chapter is also dedicated to her - let's all give a collective clap to Daisy. Thank you love!
> 
> Also check out a [Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/7z5hebjwrvcytzsx8qobf8ft8/playlist/75NYFJuYA20adYpkIw2lbD?si=mip1DfU7RNS2h1nC7H0GgA) I made for this fic! Gets you into the mood ;) (You Got It is like, the official theme song. It's decided)

It was your average Wednesday morning during the summer holiday when Martha woke the whole house up by howling at the door. The delivery boy shushed her while slipping the newspaper in through the letter-box, knowing well she didn ’t mean any harm and was just somehow  _ very _ excited at hearing him at their door on this particular day.

“Noooo,” John moaned feebly against the pillow, Paul’s lax hold around his stomach tightening as the man frowned against his neck. His feet twitched against John’s shins as they both came abruptly to the land of the living. “Mrrtha.”

“Sh’ll stopp,” Paul mumbled vaguely, his breath hot and lazy on John’ skin. He tensed when there was another bark from the over-excited dog, who had probably been woken up by a cat or two, and had spent too much time alone without anyone passing by to say hello. Martha was a well-behaved dog in general, unquestionably a good girl, the _goodest_ (in Paul ’s opinion; John might have disagreed, but only for the sake of the argument. Secretly he loved Martha with all his heart), but she was a social being, and hated being alone downstairs when she _knew_ everyone was upstairs, undoubtedly having _so much fun without her._

True to Paul ’s words, Martha ceased from her ungodly howling after the newspaper boy had left, and only let out a couple of small huffs and whines to indicate that someone better make their way down the stairs SOON. Well, too bad; John wasn’t going to be that someone.

Upon hearing those sounds Paul relaxed against John ’s back again, his arms becoming heavier and heavier, and then the man’s breathing turned deep as he started nearing the heavenly place called “sleep”.

John pressed his left hand over Paul ’s, spreading his fingers there to keep the man’s hands in place, and felt himself melt back into the mattress, Paul’s embrace secure and warm, every inch of him pressed against John. On this particular Wednesday morning they were both naked, even though usually they would sleep with at least some underwear on, in case of a nightly panic! At Chuck’s room. Last night though had been…  _ eventful, _ and of course after  _ those sort of happenings _ _ …  _ putting clothes on was the furthest thing in their minds. Sleep was a priority. Boo, clothes sucked.

After five minutes, which was completely enough for John to fall asleep again, Martha started barking at the bottom of the stairs (knowing she couldn ’t come up yet; that permission only came after breakfast. She was such a  _ smart, good girl!). _

“Bloody ‘ell, girrl—” John heard Paul slur, and the man shifted in a way that was often followed by him pulling away. Oh no. No no no.

“Whe’ d’ye think y’ goin’,” John said, face buried into the pillow, tongue swollen in his mouth and lips rubbery from sleep. Paul let out a small, incoherent noise through his nose, and John tightened his hold of the man’s hands around his stomach.

“It’s me usual hour of gettin’ up,” Paul said, already sounding more coherent and less like he would’ve been drinking for five hours straight. He didn’t move any further away though, nuzzling his nose into John’s neck with a deep, content exhale. His leg started snuggling its way between John’s, and with a terribly huge effort John lifted his left leg to give access to Paul’s invading body part.

“Noooo,” John moaned again. “Ye promised me a lazy mornin’.”

“It’d be a lazy morning by any usual standards, seein’ as it’s—” Paul lifted his head to peer at the alarm clock on John’s bedside table, “—seven forty already.”

“ _Seven forty??”_ John groaned, and then proceeded to go into a complete denial, wrapping the blanket and Paul ’s arms tighter around him while he snuggled deeper into the warm, warmer, warmest cocoon they had created, all the while whining and moaning dramatically. 

“G’night,” he finally said once he was comfortable, Paul’s leg tightly squeezed between his thighs and his arms hugged in a literal body lock, and the man huffed a laugh into his neck.

“Y’know it’s just a matter of time before—”

“ _Pop, brekkyyy!!”_

Paul let out an actual groan at Chuck ’s voice coming from the hallway before there were steps in the stairs, the boy hopping them down like it was a walk in the park at this time in the morning. John chuckled, his voice vibrating deep within his chest and against Paul’s palms that had suddenly started clutching at him strongly in a somewhat frantic hold.

“Ye talked yerself right into that one, ye did, love,” John said with barely hidden glee (although subdued from it being so damn early) and Paul mumbled something into his hair, apparently now ready to enter the Complete Denial as well. “That’s what ye get from bein’ the first up ev’ry morning.”

“That’s not fair.”

“That’s life.”

“Well,” Paul seemed to pause for a minute, “why don’t ye do brekky for once?”

“I clean this house, I make all the other meals, I basically raised our kids…”

“Oh aye,” Paul pulled himself up on one elbow and John rolled to the side to let his upper back meet the mattress, blinking up at his husband whose face was hovering right above his, hazel eyes puffy and hair sticking up adorably. “Nah, you don’t get to use that one today. Up ye get!”

“I got a lazy mornin’,” John grumbled and made a show of snuggling closer to Paul’s now revealed chest, sighing once he had pressed his forehead against Paul’s warm, hair-covered forearm that was separating him from the man’s intoxicating (equally hairy) pecks.

“No, _I_ have a lazy morning, ” Paul said pointedly, and John shook his head mutely while closing his eyes.

“Shh, Dad’s sleeping,” he then said, and Paul laughed with a somewhat unbelieving tone to his voice — while the rest of it was pure mischief. Oh no.

“Sorry, _Dad,_ but your son is practically screaming for food. ”

“I’m not going!” John exclaimed, but then—

—Paul, the bloody fucking _tosser,_ pushed him off the bed with his legs, and John couldn ’t stop his fall while his limbs were wrapped into the blanket that was still around him as a warm cocoon, and he only had time to glare at Paul with murder in his eyes before his sight of the man was replaced by the boxes that resided under their bed.

“Christ, mate!” he exclaimed and started scrambling to get out of the blanket, managing to sit up after a moment’s struggle. He stuck his head above the edge of the bed, and found Paul crawling on top of the mattress, laughing and holding his stomach, his boyish snickers having started even before John had hit the floor with a big, soft thud.

“You… ye jus’… went _down_ _…_ didn ’t even _budge_ _…_ and _that glare—_ _”_ he gasped between his laughs and coughs, now completely encompassed by his fucking giggles. He succumbed down on his front, chin supported against the bed, jerking like an overstimulated jelly.  “—like a… a… big, angry _burrito!!_ _”_ The last word burst out of him with chortles and John rolled his eyes this time, not able to keep on glaring daggers at his man while the said person was having so much unconstrained fun. Cunt.

“ _Poooooop!!”_ Chuck’s voice came now straight through the bedroom door like bellowing thunder and John jumped almost all the way to the ceiling from the surprise, already having forgotten what the whole ordeal was about.

“Hang on, nugget man,” he called, starting to look around for any clean underwear. Hmm, it was apparently a laundry day. “Pop’s a bit…” he glanced at Paul, who met his gaze in a moment of tense silence while his mouth fought to keep a straight line, and then the man was lost into his laughter again, shaking against the now blanket-less bed. John stared at his quivering, naked arse for a second before remembering himself. “…Incapacitated at the moment.”

“ _Why’s he incapa… incapacit… incapaci… deedeed?”_

John pulled on a pair of briefs and threw on one of Paul ’s t-shirts that was lying around (in  _ John _ _ ’s _ pile of dirty clothes on top of that) and hurried to open the door, not forgetting to shoot an irritated glance at Paul, who was now starting to quieten down a bit. There was still a victorious air coming off of him and wow, didn ’t John just  _ hate  _ that (in a sappy way).

“He had a fit,”John answered cheerfully once out of the room, and started ushering Chuck towards the stairs. “Now, down ye go, we got brekky to make!”

“Why’d he have a fit?” Chuck asked with a curious expression once downstairs, stepping aside instinctively so that Martha could say OHMYGODIT’SYOUITHOUGHTI’DNEVERSEEYOUAGAIN!!!!!! to John.

“Ummh,” John managed to say while he was subjected to the cruel onslaught of a happy dog with a wet tongue and more hair than all of Paul’s put together. “He— he pushed me off the bed.”

Chuck giggled, looking way too satisfied with the news. That was a thing he enjoyed, too — he and John had used to play it a lot when Chuck was smaller and John and him spent the days together at home; Conquering the Bed. Chuck was a master at it … and John had lost  _ every _ time, always. Even when he had almost had Chuck off the bed, the boy had somehow, always,  _ miraculously _ managed to turn things around. And wow, the strength in those little hands of his. John just  _ plainly _ stood no  _ chance _ against him.

“But ye know, I put up a huuuge fight!” John said with a large grin, and could hear how Paul started laughing upstairs again. What a _jerk._

***~**~***

Paul had decided to spend the morning with a book while John went around the house, collecting laundry and sorting clean clothes. Usually Paul would join in with the sorting (if he had time from work), but John sounded content enough doing it on his own, listening to the Spice Girls from his phone and humming along as he folded the tenth plaid dress shirt that Dave owned. 

Chuck and Vera had put up a fort of some sort in Vera ’s room, with plastic plates and wooden fruits and all that, and were now playing home with Vera being a successful business woman and Chuck being a stay-at-home dad, looking after the kids (two dolls named Donna and Rose, respectfully after Doctor Who, just like Martha). Dave was doing God knew what, locked up in his room and being suspiciously quiet. Well, Paul knew better than to butt in into a teenager’s life.

“Whatcha readin’?” John’s nasal voice reached his ears from the doorway and he lifted his eyes to meet John’s gaze. The man had a book as well, something about gouache painting, and Paul glanced down at his novel before grinning at John sheepishly.

“Umm… the Game of Thrones?”

“Still, love??” John groaned, but started making his way towards Paul at the same time. Paul moved instinctively, so that his back was pressed against the armrest of the couch, and John came to lie (more like, sneaked in between Paul’s legs like a snake, with precise adaptation) on top of him, flopping down with a satisfied exhale.  
They shifted together, John turning over while Paul reached to pull a pillow from the closer of the two armchairs, placing it between John’s head and his stomach to protect his husband’s fragile artist’s neck from any further stiffness, and then there was a moment of tension before both men relaxed, their frames slotting together perfectly.

John opened his book against Paul ’s bent legs, and Paul rested his own book against the top of John’s head, and silence took over as they both got lost in their books.

Eventually, the cats discovered them.

“Y’know,” John said, voice muffled by Thisbe’s fur as the cat settled comfortably on top of his chest — and in front of John’s face, “this whole reading-thing would be a lot easier without you there.”

Thisbe meowed lazily in response and stretched his round form, pressing his back even more firmly against John ’s face. Paul chuckled at the soft protesting sound the man let out, knowing that John didn’t really mind. He loved his cats more than anything in the world because a) the cats never sassed him back (except when they did) and b) the cats had never vomited on him (except when they had). Those two reasons, in John’s mind, made them infinitely better than any other being he might have shared his home with.

Paul didn ’t understand him. How could the cats be possibly better than the  _ sweetest  _ honeybee  _ Martha?? _

Truthfully, he did understand. John had always been a cat person, and with his first cat Gubbins having been the only constant in his life for years while his family shifted and changed around him — that had influenced and enhanced the love that was already there. 

Upon Gubbins ’ death in 2001, John had understandably been devastated. A year after, after having settled into their new house, they had bought two male kittens from the same litter for each other and named them after their characters in a humorous play by Shakespeare that they’d once upon a time done in the uni. John, having played Thisbe, had gifted the silver tabby to Paul, and Paul had given the brown tabby Pyramus to him — both grinning like idiots over the concept of gifting the cats to each other. 

From the two of them, Thisbe was clearly the boss, and consequently imagined himself to be the boss of the household as well. He had never liked children much, but in these days got along with Dave without problems. He didn ’t  _ avoid _ the kids anymore like he had in the past, but Chuck couldn ’t take him into his lap unless Thisbe was in an exceptionally good mood, with both Paul and John in the room as backup. Fortunately he had started warming up to Vera recently — Paul and John were waiting for the day they could tick off 2/3 of the children from their list of “people Thisbe doesn’t hate”. 

Pyramus in turn was much more loving towards humans in general, but he ’d been a rather chaotic being when he was younger (clearly modelling himself after John, Paul had remarked plenty a time). When Dave and Vera had been small, Pyramus had had a disease called urethral obstruction which had ended up threatening his life, and John had ever since doted on the cat with all his heart, keeping a careful eye on him even when everything seemed to be fine.  
(Paul couldn’t blame him — he followed Pyramus regularly as well, and couldn’t help but check every few days that the cat was able to urinate properly.)

Paul knew that with luck, they could enjoy their cats for a few years more. But eventually the moment of saying goodbye would arrive in one form or another, from an illness or more natural causes, and he dreaded the day. It hovered in the back of his mind as a small acknowledgement, saying that  _ that day will come,  _ and as such he made sure to delight in every moment spent with the cats.

Which was why John wasn ’t pushing Thisbe away, and instead just let go of the book and brought his hand up blindly to scratch at the cat’s head.

“Just for your information,” Paul said after five minutes of continuing his book, the rise and fall of John’s chest starting to get suspiciously slow (a warm, soft cat obscuring all light in front of his face and another tucked lower in his arms — no better way of shutting his body down). “I’m gonna have to get up soon, ‘cos you’re pressing all over me bladder.”

“Fuck your bladder,” John let out a muffled mumble and Thisbe purred. Oh no. If the cat fell asleep, Paul would never get up, because John would _never_ let Paul destroy that peace of Thisbe sleeping on top of him. The cat would do that only if one stayed in one place like a tree for hours, and as such it was a rare treat.

“I mean,” Paul said, turning a page, “it’ll definitely be ‘fuck my bladder’ when I pee all over you. And while I know some people find it kinky, I also happen know that you _don_ _’t.”_

“Jesus,” John shuddered, voice disgusted. “I hope for your sake that the kids don’t have Superman’s hearing.”

Paul laughed at that, calculating the state of his bladder and the ups and downs in getting up now or later. John was so warm and soft and  _ fitting _ lying on top of him, and Paul hated having to lose this feeling. Even if he could get back to it afterwards whenever he wanted to.

It seemed that fate decided for him, since suddenly there was a crash from upstairs, and then Chuck ’s distinguishable crying.

“God, what _now,_ _”_ John sighed, not making any attempt from trying to see beyond the cat.

“I’ll check it out. I was getting up anyway,” Paul shrugged as well as he could from his position and nudged at John’s back with a couple of well-manoeuvred thrusts of his hips to get the man into moving. With John groaning and moaning and whining, he slid out from under him and dropped the book on the coffee table in the hopes of getting back to it sometime during the day.

“Actually, can you check the laundry? It should be done,” John had ended up laying on the couch on his back, Thisbe having moved directly on top of his face (or then John had pulled him there for the sake of moping with the lost contact with Paul).

Paul hummed in an affirmative tone and wondered whether he would be able to go and release his bladder before interfering with the situation upstairs.

***~**~***

“Hnnggaah,” Paul whined and wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders from behind. The man startled slightly before relaxing in his hold, eyes never leaving the day’s local newspaper. After bustling around in the garden the heat of the summer day had started getting unbearable, and Paul had entered the kitchen to find John sitting at the table, a tea mug in one hand, the paper in the other.

“It’s so hoooot,” Paul sighed, resting his cheek on top of John’s soft but uncombed auburn hair. He could feel the man’s chuckle vibrating against his arms and he tightened his hold, the chair pressing uncomfortably against his stomach. It wasn’t enough to drive him away though.

“Yeah, you’re sticky,” John said and sipped at his tea casually, turning the page to take a look at today’s culture section.

“Hrmmh,” Paul let out a vague sound, relishing in the relative coolness of the kitchen compared to the scorching yard. They succumbed into silence where neither of them felt the need to move, because even though the chair was _very_ uncomfortable against Paul ’s ribs, John’s scent in his nostrils and the feel of him under his arms was way too pleasant for him to even consider letting go.

There was a noise from the stairs and soon Dave appeared at the kitchen door, wearing an XXL sleeveless top and equally large, baggy shorts, eyes sliding over his parents in the typical fashion of teenagers who tried avoiding any contact with their brethren.

Paul could almost bet his teeth the lad was here for food.

“…We gonna eat soon?” Dave asked after a while of looking around the kitchen idly, most likely in the search of something quick to eat.

Ha. Five points to Paul. He had also lost his teeth to himself.

“Yeah,” John said, sipping at his tea again. “But you can take an apple.”

Dave made a face ( “yuck, fruits”) but headed towards the fruit bowl that was in the middle of the kitchen table. He grabbed one apple from the top and toppled down into the chair, snatching a quick bite from the fruit, and then pulled out his phone to do whatever young people did with their phones.

(Paul knew  _ all _ about Twitter, but he was rather sure it wasn ’t something Dave used.)

Paul nuzzled at John ’s hair with a content sigh, and John hummed quietly in response. It was wordless communication at its best, and even though Paul was becoming increasingly sticky, he didn’t want to budge. Nuh-huh. Hugging was good. John was good. Thus hugging John was  _ the best. _

God, he was really soaking John ’s t-shirt through and through. 

“‘Ey, by the way,” Dave said suddenly, looking up from his phone with his gaze landing on John and Paul, a somewhat thoughtful expression in his eyes, “Andy thinks you two got like, the best relationship.”

“ _Andy?”_ John asked with a voice that Paul could imagine was accompanied by an eyebrow or two raised in confusion. At the same time Paul slowly moved his head, now resting his chin on top of John ’s head instead of his cheek in an order to give a baffled look at their son.

“I mean, yeah,” Dave nodded. “‘Cos like, ye’re not divorced or anything, like.”

“If that’s the minimum requirement for having a good relationship, then God help my parents,” Paul dead-panned and John chuckled, taking another sip of his tea.

“No, like, we talked about it one day with the lads, y’know,” Dave shrugged, already looking uncomfortable at the aspect of talking about this with John and Paul, but at the same time he seemed genuinely curious about something. “An’ we sort of… compared, uh, our parents.”

“And? We’re the lamest, uncoolest, strictest ever?” John asked, and now Paul could definitely hear the raised eyebrows in his voice. He couldn’t help the grin that spread on his lips and he hid his mouth into John’s hair, holding him tighter as he tried to stop his giggles from escaping.

“Uh, actually everyone thinks ye two are pretty cool,” Dave said and grimaced, as if admitting it gave him physical pain. “I disagreed, o’ course,” he quickly added as an afterthought in a slightly haughty voice, making it clear to all three of them that he was at least _partly_ joking.

“But the thing is, um, ‘cos Andy’s and Joel’s parents are divorced, an’ Charlie an’ Jake an’ Harry all said that theirs, like, shout at each other sometimes ‘n stuff,” he continued. “An’ I told ‘em ye guys don’t, an’ they said that it’s no wonder ‘cos ye two got literally the best relationship, from what they’ve seen, y’know, visiting ‘ere, like.”

Paul and John stared at him.

“…We do shout at each other?” Paul was the first to speak, his tone careful and brow furrowed. “…Do we?”

“I shouted at you about the last pickle yesterday,” John said, sounding equally confused.

“ _And_ you shouted at me this morning. ”

“You pushed me _off the bed!!_ _”_

“Uh. But that’s jus’ ye guys havin’ fun together, innit?” Dave piped in before taking another bite of his apple, going against all the things Paul and John had ever taught him by eating while speaking. “You don’t _fight._ Like, slam doors or such. I ’ve never seen or heard anythin’, at least? _And_ you ’re always kinda, um, super affectionate with each other, like” he waved a hand in their direction with a somewhat uncomfortable expression, eyes sweeping from John to Paul (who admittedly was being slightly affectionate at the moment).

“Shouldn’t couples be?” John asked, clearly having lost the plot here. “What kinda parents do yer friends got?”

“The uncool, like,” Dave said with his mouth tugging up into a sly smile, and Paul laughed silently against John’s head. He wondered whether he would ever be able to un-stick himself from the man, since it appeared his front had been glued to John’s back. But that was a problem for another time for sure.

“It’s true though,” Paul thought aloud after a small moment of both him and John just lulling in the unexpected information that the discussion had produced. “We don’t fight.”

“I mean, what reason would we have for that?” John asked, sounding honest and innocent, making it clear that he truly didn’t understand why he and Paul should be _fighting._ “If I’m not right, then Paul is, and if he’s not right, then I am? I mean, there’s no need to fight when _one_ of us is always correct, is there? ”

Paul couldn ’t help but burst into chuckles, finally straightening his back and sliding his arms away from John’s chest, resting them on the man’s shoulders instead. Dave was laughing as well, his expression bright and for a moment devoid of any angst. What a wondrous moment.

“What’d I say?” John asked and twisted around to look at Paul, who shook his head at him with a large smile.

“Nothing, love. You’re absolutely correct,” he answered while throwing a wink at Dave, as if to say _“this is how it works”._ John narrowed his eyes at him, but didn’t comment on the wink or his words.

“Honestly, though,” Paul said after he’d calmed down, the easy smile still resting on his lips, “It’s just about communication. An’ loving each other.”

“Ye jus’ sounded like me health education textbook,” Dave grumbled, and both John and Paul chuckled at that. “…That’ll be a slap in the face for Harry’s mum. I hear she’s only keepin’ the marriage intact with blackmail.”

“Please don’t draw us into any battle between the parents of yer mates,” John groaned. “We’re fine as we are.”

“Hmh,” Dave squinted at them, starting to bring up his phone again. “Ye really are.”

“…”

“We gonna eat soon or what?”

***~**~***

“I was thinking about what Dave said before,” Paul mumbled against John’s chest, hands wrapped tightly around him, his words coming out in a bit of a slur after the quick evening sex they’d just had. John was still lying on top of him, not really feeling the need to move, and Paul’s hold of him was too tight for him to roll off the man anyway. He knew they’d still have to get up, since both were in a desperate need for a shower after a full day of sweating their arses off in the house that had started heating up in the merciless sun of July sometime around the afternoon, and had resembled a sauna by the evening.  
John had never been happier about the fact that his office was situated in the cold and damp ex-garage with thick concrete walls and no windows.

“Hmm?” He let out a small sound and started mouthing at Paul’s sweat-slicked throat softly, dragging his tongue over the shape of the collarbone. He just simply loved the taste of his husband, not able to get enough of it. It was at its best like this; wet and salty. 

John loved eating his man.

“And just, y’know, I’m glad we have such a good relationship,” Paul continued, sounding increasingly incoherent, voice becoming slightly dreamy as John continued the adventures of his tongue, shifting so that he could slide Paul’s earlobe into his mouth, playing gently with it with his tongue and emitting a small moan from its owner.

“True,” John murmured, since his closeness to Paul’s ears didn’t really require him to speak louder. “It’s not a given.”

“No, not with you,” Paul retorted and was then forced to inhale sharply as John bit down on his ear in revenge (although knowing that the bastard would only get aroused by it.)

“Not with you either, love,” John said with a soft voice and let his head drop between Paul’s neck and his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his husband. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact things that it reminded him of, save for one; Paul’s scent equalled home for him.

Paul let out a huff of laughter, his fingers stroking John ’s back absent-mindedly.

“I’m just glad we work. That we’ve _made_ it work, ” he said, and John squeezed his sides with his hands, jerking his head in what resembled a nod. Yeah. He was really glad about that as well.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m the luckiest man on earth,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “I’m just— y’know, we’re happy. You know that.”

“Yeah.” Paul paused, and John could feel something twist in his stomach, not different from the feeling of blind love he’d had for Paul in nineteen-bloody-ninety _four._ Talk feelings, and John was always a goner.  “We’re happy.”

He paused.

“An’ we have kids,” he continued, voice quiet with a hint of unbelief, as if even after all these years the concept of being able to have _kids_ was still difficult to grasp.

“And we’re _married,_ _”_ John breathed.

Paul let out a slightly shaky exhale, shuddering under him. 

Yeah. 

John knew what that thought felt like. 

The unbelievable goal that it had once been — the thought of waiting and waiting and the  _ act _ of waiting and  _ waiting, _ wondering whether it would ever change, hating that years passed without anything getting better, hating that they were kept from the one thing they  _ truly _ wanted  _ just _ because some asshat had decided their mere  _ love _ for each other was  _ disgusting —  _ and then … then it had come  _ true. _

It was  _ true. _

“Sometimes I wake up,” Paul said softly, his arms tightening their hold of John, “and I don’t remember we’re _there,_ and— an ’ when I remember, it’s like fallin’ in love with you again.”

“An’ thank _God_ it was me, ” John said quietly, hearing Paul sigh. The man was well aware by now how awful it had been for John in the beginning — the fear of not being able to have him, knowing that Paul wasn’t interested in sex. It had only lasted for a few weeks, sure, but it had been tearing John apart. And John knew… he _knew_ that he would ’ve fallen in love with Paul anyway, whether there had been a relationship or a friendship between them. That was a damn _given,_ because never ever had John felt anything like this towards anyone else — not before, and not after Paul had entered his life. He was in love with Paul McCartney, knowing it wouldn ’t go away, and if there was a God… if there was a God of some kind, John was going to personally thank him for giving them this. For giving Paul to John.

“Thank God it _was_ you, ” Paul mumbled, and they succumbed into silence that lasted for a total grandeur of two minutes, during which John managed to slide to the bed to lie next to Paul instead of on top of him, and amid which the two somehow ended up snuggled together instead of making their way towards the shower. They wouldn’t have to fear for the kids walking in, since they had an en-suite connected to their bedroom. During the days it was used by everyone, if two of the kids wanted to take a shower at the same time, but in the evening it was only for John and Paul — though they tended to brush their teeth along with Vera and Chuck in the bigger bathroom, just to make sure that both children _did_ it.

“Think about it though — Mrs Barnwell uses _blackmail._ _”_ John said after mulling in the silence, rolling the days happenings in his head, listening to the familiar and safe sounds of Paul’s breathing.

“I don’t understand it.” Paul’s voice sounded immediately scandalised. “I mean, on a theoretical level yes, sure, but on the practical one… I can’t really understand how that would work, or make for a happy marriage.”

“Me neither,” John sighed, sneaking his hand down to the small of Paul’s back, pulling the man’s lower body closer to his as well as he could until they were slotted together. “I never thought we’d crack the secret to a happy relationship, though.”

“Do you know what it is?” Paul asked quietly, face buried between the pillow and the crook of John’s neck, arms warm and secure around him, not an inch between them.

John hummed, unsure about how to answer. He didn ’t really want to make a guess, as if explaining how they were perfect together would destroy that concept, would make them fall apart now that they were  _ conscious _ of the things they did  _ right.  _ Rationally, John  _ knew _ that they wouldn ’t break apart just because of some hypothetical pondering over the workings of their relationship, but the feeling was still there. 

As if voicing the magic would break it.

He knew Paul sensed his hesitation, knew his feelings and reactions like the back of his hand, and understood even better than John what was going on inside his head. In the perfect form of consolation and reassurance, the man ’s lips brushed against John’s neck and his right forefinger delicately traced a small heart into John’s back, making his skin prickle.

“Maybe… we’ve just had to fight against the world for so long,” he said thoughtfully, carefully, “that mundane problems don’t get to us.”

“I think— I think it’s ‘cos I love you so much,” Paul confessed quietly, and John could feel the man’s lips curl into a smile against his skin — the wanker had probably felt how John’s heart had practically jumped out of his ribcage at hearing those words.

How could it still be so, after all these years? How could it— how could it make him so damn  _ happy?? _

“But can you say you’d love me more than, say, Mrs Barnwell loves her husband?” John raised an eyebrow at the wall, hearing and feeling how Paul chuckled.

“I mean, of course. ‘Cos I don’t need blackmail to keep you in check.”

“Let me remind you of those comments about my mullet phrase again,” John poked at Paul’s arse with his finger and Paul swatted at his backside for good measure, both breaking into giggles right afterwards.

“Busted,” Paul snickered and John couldn’t help it; he just _had_ to kiss that sound out of Paul ’s mouth.

Rolling them over he was soon straddling Paul ’s stomach, and once he had the man looking at him with the wrinkles around his eyes wonderfully accentuated from the wide smile on his face, he leaned down and pressed his lips against Paul’s, cradling his head in his hands while Paul delved his fingers into John’s hair, pulling him closer.

“I keep— I keep thinking back to our deal, though,” John said after the soft sounds of their lips moving together had filled the room for a moment. “Y’know, when Dave was small.”

Paul looked at him with a small, confused frown before his expression cleared and his eyebrows rose in silent comprehension.

“True. That’d explain a lot,” he nodded, and John _loved_ the feeling of being on the same page, of the whole mind-reading thing they had going on. It was _boss._ “Also, what you said before to Dave — that too. One of us is always right.”

“That goes back to the deal as well, doesn’t it? ‘Cos it entails us listening to each other.”

They stared at each other silently, John ’s mind running like a racehorse. Yeah— yeah, that would make sense. That would make a  _ hell _ of a sense.

“I can’t wait to waltz back in at school and exclaim how I’ve cracked the secret to having a perfect relationship,” Paul said after a moment, sounding a bit awed. John huffed a laugh, leaning down to peck the man on his nose.

“Communication ‘n love,” he said. “That’s all we need.”

“And patience. God, the patience I need,” Paul dead-panned and John couldn’t help but laugh for real now, before trying to bite down on Paul’s nose as revenge.

“Nooo, no no. Ye bloody cunt— _Stop biting me!_ _”_

“Chomp chomp.”

“I need a restrainin’ order.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Deal" will be explained in a few chapters, so don't worry! I'm just keeping y'all in suspense, haha
> 
> The next chapter is almost written, so it shouldn't take a long time for me to get it out! (Probably a week or two) Till then, pumpkins! <3


	11. I'm Sure The Road Looks Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter warnings:** small injuries, blood, panic!, gives you an urge to hug the HELL out of the kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! You didn't think I'd be ready this soon? Well I proved you wrong. Ha. ha ha. (Mainly because the chapter was almost already written. yey. consequently the next one will take 6 months to write. Just fucking watch me)
> 
> Y'all wanted more Vera. Here you have it. ~~i'm sorry~~
> 
> Special thanks to my beta [Daisy](https://thefrogchorus.tumblr.com/) for helping out with everything from grammar to cultural differences! Thanks love!! <3 no thanks to puck cos she's ignoring me due to being busy with uni. boo. im being overruled by fucking _school work_

“I’m going to the park with Ellie,” Vera called out along with the sound of her hopping down the stairs echoing in the house, the rhythmic thumps distracting Dave from his reading. He was sitting in the living room, nestled comfortably into an armchair with a big steaming mug of Earl Grey on the coffee table and Thisbe in his lap. The TV was on, showing a paused game of Mario Kart, but the Wii remote was resting next to his tea, since he had a book in his hands instead. An actual, real-life book.

The game was just a set-up, in case Pop and Dad came home early — they ’d gone to IKEA to look for a new couch for the cottage (finally) — because Dave wanted to read in the comfortable armchair, but never in hell wanted his dads to discover that he was actually  _ reading. _ So in case they popped in without a warning, Dave could always throw the book far, far away and grab the remote to pretend to having been playing the whole time.

“Yeah,” he called back to his sister with a blank, uninterested voice, hearing how Vera bustled around in the hallway before there was one final “bye” and the door was closed with a slam, silence descending into the house. Since Chuck was at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s, probably getting fat from all the sweets and cartoons, it offered Dave a rare and relished moment of being alone in the big house. Finally some peace and quiet, after those two weeks at the cottage!

Most of his complaining was just for the show, though; it hadn ’t been too bad in the end. Chris had been the highlight of his whole month, and he had missed the lad, like one would miss a brother — they had after all sort of grown up together (some technicalities aside). But spending all that time with his family had certainly started getting on Dave’s nerves, and he really needed some me-time now, preferably for the rest of his life if possible, thank you. 

Nothing wrong with seeing his mates, though. He just wanted to  _ not _ interact with his folks for a change.

He leaned carefully over the round, soft cat to sip at his tea quickly before returning to his previous position, his eyes finding effortlessly the last sentence he ’d read. Chris had given him the book, saying it was the first out of five in a series, and that Dave could probably find the rest in the local library if he wanted to read them… and so far Dave had been hooked. The book was telling the life story of Julius Caesar, in the form of a brilliant fictitious narrative, and it all felt so real Dave found himself being drawn into ancient Rome without regrets, almost able to smell the dust on the practise field, and the scent of the horses, and could almost hear the sounds of swords being sharpened as Julius would practise with his best friend Marcus…

He had been immersed in the story ’s world for about three minutes when there was the sound of the front door opening, and he stilled automatically, ready to start pretending he was only playing… but it didn’t sound like the dads — no, they were usually so loud it was impossible to miss them when the two of them were in the same room. Instead there was a little sniff, and Dave deduced it to be Vera. Huh.

“F…n…the bike,” Vera’s voice came out muffled and Dave could barely hear the words. Okay, so she had decided to go on a bike instead. Huh, funny. He had assumed she’d taken the bike already, like usual. But maybe, since the park was just half a mile away, she had decided to walk instead. 

Dave let out a small noise that he thought was responsive enough and returned his gaze to the book.

“I f-fell on the bike,” Vera’s voice came out clear and strong then, and Dave’s eyes snapped up instinctively at those words… to see Vera appear in the doorway of the living room, a helmet still on her head and strands of brown hair escaping the braid Dad had done hastily in the morning. Dave’s gaze travelled down, to where the left side of her blue sleeveless top was smudged with dirt, the sand covering her all the way down to her purple shorts… and to her left leg where the skin was brutally open with road rash, already dark red with both blood and dirt in an alarmingly big area.

“Oh my God.” Dave’s mouth hung open, and he sprung into action before Vera had time to come any closer. The book flew on the couch, along with Thisbe being dropped down, and then he hurried over to her, eyes mapping over her body again. The more he looked, the queasier he felt. “Oh, buggers— ye fell on the bike,” he said, mind blank from shock. Oh dear, what should he do? Was she in pain? What did he need?? How to get the dirt out of Vera’s open wounds? Had she hurt her—

“Yer, yer head,” he said hurriedly, noting that Vera’s left arm had angry red patches of road rash as well, dread falling into his stomach. Oh God, _what should he do??_ “Did ye hurt yer head??”

“N-no,” Vera said, voice tiny and blotched (and didn’t Dave just _hate_ that tone from his usually so fierce sister), and then tears started filling her eyes, although it looked like she was trying to hold them back.  “F-fell on me left s-side.”

She lifted her left arm (stiffly, Dave noted with growing panic in his head), and showed him her elbow.

Oh— oh shit. Oh shit. The road rash covered the  _ whole _ of it, and Dave could see little stones embedded in the midst of the moist redness, along with the usually pale skin turned brown from dirt.

“O-okay,” Dave said, trying to calm himself down. He needed to act, he needed to… needed to clean up the wounds, and call the dads. Right. _Right. Dad and Pop._

“Go into the kitchen, let Martha out,” he said, “I’ll get the disinfectant—”

He hurried past her without waiting for an answer, rushing up the stairs while digging out his phone frantically. It didn ’t take long for him to dial Dad, knowing the man was most likely just standing around idly while Pop tested the couches and compared notes and whatever; as such Dad would also notice his phone buzzing. 

He lifted the smartphone to his ear while crashing into the bathroom with all the urgency of a worried big brother. They had a small cupboard there, filled with all the medicine and healing supplies; lockable so that the other two kids couldn ’t open it and get their hands on anything that didn’t belong into their mouths, but Dave had long ago grown tall enough to reach the key that resided on top of the white metallic cupboard.

“ _Hi Dav-vy!”_ Dad answered cheerfully just as Dave yanked the cupboard open, looking for the disinfectant with a slightly swirling mind. He really needed to— needed to calm himself down, but … but Vera was _hurt,_ there was so much _blood,_ and the _dads weren_ _’t there!_

“Dad, Vera fell on the bike!” he said, cutting straight to the point. His voice cracked in its annoying evolving state, but this time he didn’t even mind. Playing it cool wasn’t even remotely considered in his panicked mind, because _who_ could play it cool while their sister was hurt, bleeding, and _crying,_ and Dave was _all_ she had at the moment?? No, trying to seem _cool_ didn ’t even graze his thoughts as he eyed at the containinings of the cupboard wildly, not really able to absorb any of the labels he read.

“ _What?? What—”_

“There’s— there’s, she’s got road rash, all over her left arm and leg, and there’s _blood,_ and what do I do?? What do I—”

“ _Dave! Dave, Jesus, breath!! Is she alright? She didn’t hit her head?”_ Dad sounded alarmed now, and Dave shook his head vigorously while answering, eyes sweeping over painkillers. Hmm. Should he give one to Vera? She was hurt, right? Would they help? How much would she need? A half?? A whole would be too strong, _right?_

“No, she didn’t,” he said tersely and could hear his dad sigh from relief. “But there’s really a lot of… a lot of b-blood, an’ I don’t…”

“ _Okay, hang on— Paul? Paul— no, forget the bloody couch! — Vera’s fallen on her bike, and there’s apparently quite a lot of road rash, and—”_

There were sudden rustling sounds, along with Dad calling out  ‘hey! You thief!’ before Pop’s bright, business-like greeting shot through Dave’s eardrum… and somehow his panicky feelings started calming down somewhat. Okay, Pop was on the case, and he could… he could solve anything, and he knew what to do, so everything would be fine.

(A part of Dave acknowledged that Dad wasn ’t any worse at that, at least when it came to patching the kids up… in which he was probably better than Pop, but due to the usual circumstances and happenings in their daily life, Dad was forever associated with mild chaos in Dave’s mind. That was just the way things were. 

On the other hand, Dave found it a lot easier to talk emotions and … stuff with Dad. Pop sometimes breezed over the problem, not realising that not everyone saw it in the same “think positively and your worries are gone” way as he tended to do. 

This, though … this situation required Pop and his positive and straight-forward problem-solving skills, and Dave was ready to welcome all of it with open arms.)

“Pop, Vera’s—”

“ _Yeah, I heard— how bad is it?”_

“Really bad,” Dave said, the frenzy in his mind finally calming down somewhat, letting him read the labels. He spotted the disinfectant almost immediately and quickly grabbed it. He then turned to the sink cabinet, knowing he’d find some cotton wool from there. “There’s a lot of blood.”

“ _It often looks worse than it is — no, John, we can’t get there ‘soon’,”_ Pop said, talking to Dad, then addressing his words to Dave. _“Sorry, Dave, we’re right in the middle of IKEA’s endless labyrinth, and even driving to Liverpool takes a half an hour… Can you handle it on your own? I can call Grandma to come over, but she won’t be there before us either.”_

“Just tell me what I gotta do,” Dave said, feeling a bit shaky at the thought, but knowing he wouldn’t leave Vera hanging. No, she needed _him,_ and needed him right now as well, so he needed to get the _fuck_ going back downstairs to her.

“ _You take the disinfectant, some cotton wool, an’ you clean the rash by gently tapping at it — might wanna first try to get the dirt out with water and handkerchiefs, but gently.”_

“What about the stones— there were little stones in her elbow as well.”

“ _Oh shit, it’s that bad?”_ Pop let out an unusual swear (at least when talking to Dave; Dave knew that when alone with Dad, the swear words flew out of his mouth without any inhibition). _“Right, you — no John, it’s just stones in her elbow, it’s fine — you take tweezers, they’re in the sink cabinet, and you carefully pick the stones out. It’ll hurt some, but just try to keep the atmosphere light. Humour often helps. It’s just broken skin, you’ll do fine love, we’ll be there soon.”_

Dave thought about Pop and his never-ending positivity, and then about Dad and his never-ending joke factory, and thought (once again) that the two were really a match made in heaven, and it was no wonder they still seemed to have such a fine, working relationship while Dave ’s friends had their parents divorcing left and right; Dad and Pop never went a day without laughter. It was probably how they’d made it so far. That, and the fact that they seemed to genuinely enjoy each other’s presence. Probably helped a ton.

(Dave wanted to have a future relationship like them, but wouldn ’t admit it even if being held at gunpoint. That would  _ sure _ be embarrassing.)

Armed with the disinfectant, handkerchiefs, cotton wool, and tweezers, he made his way back downstairs and found Vera from the kitchen, standing there and still trying very hard not to cry. She had taken off her helmet and sandals, but Dave was afraid her clothes would have to go too — they were in such a state that it was entirely possible her skin was broken underneath as well, or at least in need of inspection and a clean-up.

“Okay,” he said, trying to channel the cheerful voice of Dad while thinking positively like Pop. Come on Dave! He could do it! “Let’s get to work then. That’s quite a way in gettin’ me up from the couch, too,” he grinned, starting to feel a bit better himself as his tone turned lighter. “Congrats, you succeeded in what the dads _still_ fail at. ”

Vera chuckled at that, and Dave tugged at her sleeveless top gently after placing all of his equipment on the kitchen table.

“You gotta take this off,” he said. “Any wounds down there?”

“Nu-uh,” Vera shook her head, but started taking her shirt off anyway. She revealed a large bruise on her left hipbone, and Dave managed to stop himself from flinching. That _had_ to hurt. 

He scanned over her bare torso and chest, relieved that there didn ’t seem to be any other alarm-raising signs of a collision with the road.

“So, did an elephant run over you, or what?” he asked in a deliberate deadpan, and Vera giggled faintly, a few tears escaping her eyes even though she was clearly swallowing them with maximum effort.

“No,” she said, giving Dave that “you’re so stupid” look she had perfected by the time she had turned three. “I went too fast around a corner, and there was sand.”

“Sand is a bitch,” Dave hummed, going over to the sink to wet a couple of handkerchiefs. Then he sat down into one of the kitchen chairs, Vera shuffling closer so that she almost stood between his legs.

“I don’t like sand,” she said, her eyes flicking with mischief for a second. Dave sniffed, holding his head up high.

“It’s coarse…” he said in a haughty voice and Vera giggled.

“And rough…” she countered with a raise of his eyebrow.

“And irritating…”

They burst into the next line simultaneously, Vera dissolving into giggles right after while Dave grinned along:

“ _And it gets everywhere!”_

“Thank God for the helmet, though,” Dave then said while Vera still had a smile on her face, deciding that it didn’t really matter what he said as long as he kept talking. He took a gentle hold of her wrist and lifted her arm up, starting to dab at the bleeding skin as carefully as he could.

Immediately Vera sucked in a small breath and more tears sprung up in her eyes as she started squirming away with painful little noises escaping her mouth. Even though he hated doing so, Dave was forced to strengthen his hold of her arm to keep her in place. But God, this— this was just  _ the worst. _

“H-h-hurts!” she squealed in a tight voice, and then a sob broke through, and oh God, Dave _couldn_ _’t do this._

“It’ll get better,” he said feebly, feeling a bit faint in the head. He had only started! It would take him ages to get Vera’s wounds cleaned! God, he wished he could take her place instead.

Vera scrunched her face up, Dave waiting with the handkerchief ready in his hand, and then Vera seemed to stop the sobs with sheer willpower, nodding at him while fighting to get her eyes open. Dave had experienced that sort of pain once when he ’d fallen down the stairs a few years ago; the sort of pain where your eyes just sort of  _ drooped, _ your frown itched so deep that opening your eyelids was plain impossible. (He had broken a rib and it had healed just fine, but it had definitely been a scare. It had also cemented his views on the dads being straight up  _ heroes.) _

“Think about,” he said, scrambling for something that would help Vera handle the pain. What character could she relate to in this situation? No one from Disney, or… or the Tintin comics… right, comics, she’d read Fullmetal Alchemist, hadn’t she? She _had,_ thinking Dave didn ’t notice his FMA collection always missing one album… in the reading order. “Think about, um, Ed. Edward Elric. Ed is strong, right? Imagine you’re Ed. He never gives up, even when he’s really hurt. Just as stubborn as ye.”

“It’s a b-bit l-like,” Vera stuttered and Dave started cleaning up the skin again, his sister letting out small pained sounds before attempting to collect herself again, “I was a-attacked b-b-by S-S-Scar.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Dave nodded urgently. “At _least_ by him. Hey— if you ’re Ed, who does that make me?”

Vera squirmed a bit, then let out a sigh of relief when Dave put the bloody handkerchief away, picking up the tweezers to take out as many stones as he could. There were still tears on her cheeks, pooling in the corners of her eyes in a way Dave hadn ’t quite seen before with her, and she still involuntarily twitched and squirmed in his hold, but she was doing better all the time. Probably getting used to the painful sensation.

“Y-you’re… you’re Ling. L-Ling Yao. Obviously.”

“The teenage prince with an endless stomach? Sounds about right.”

Vera chuckled, then let out a small sound when Dave pulled the first stone out.

“What about Chuck?” Dave said, keeping his voice as calm as possible, trying to divert Vera’s attention somewhere else. The quicker he worked, the sooner it would be over. At least Vera’s sobs seemed to have quieted down for now, which was grand, because Dave found it almost impossible to think straight and calmly when faced with _those._

“H-he’s obviously the… the girl. The… the princess? Ling’s rival?”

“Oh,” Dave laughed, picking yet another stone out. Vera tensed every time he caught another one, but relaxed in between while he was dropping the offending stones on the table. It was a good thing, Dave guessed. She was learning the drill. “He’s definitely her. May, right?”

“Yeah, May,” Vera nodded, and then continued thoughtfully.

“I think Pop would be Winry — _ouch! —_ h-he’s…”

“Yeah, yeah, 100 per cent,” Dave said, warming to the subject. “He gets Winry’s _‘is that a beautiful automail’_ -look whenever he sees something worth fixing. An ’ he _always_ bosses Dad around. And he always knows best. ”

“He’s also really warm ‘n safe,” Vera said quietly, flinching when Dave went to pull out the final stone… moving onto wetting a piece of cotton wool with the disinfectant with a cautious mind, knowing it would sting like a bitch.

He prayed the dads would get there soon, because Vera definitely needed someone warm and safe right now.

“Uhhuh,” he agreed, mentally preparing himself for Vera’s upcoming sobs. He knew it’d hurt too much for her to hold them back. “Then… wouldn’t Dad be Ed, though?”

Vera scoffed, Dave carefully bringing the cotton wool closer. He wanted to hear her response before actually pressing it onto her wound.

“…I think Dad would be Ling as well. Just as chaotic.”

Dave laughed out loud at that, and Vera chuckled as well.

“Everyone in that series is jus’ way too _in control_ to be Dad, if ye know what I mean, ” Dave said with glee, and Vera laughed until Dave softly touched the cotton wool to her arm.

Dave hoped his grip on her wrist wouldn ’t leave a bruise, because she sure tried yanking herself away.

***~**~***

“ _Da-aa-ad!”_ Vera broke into an open cry the moment the front door was pushed open and a more-or-less frantic-looking John appeared in the doorway of the kitchen seconds later. Dave let out a huge breath of relief and Vera dashed forward, ready to be engulfed in Dad ’s arms.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Dad said with a loving, gentle voice, carefully prying Vera’s hands from his neck where they’d immediately locked to, “let me look at yer battle wounds first, yeah? Then we’ll have ice-cream an’ we can cuddle an’ watch a good film, ‘kay?”

Vera nodded, taking a step back so that he could look at her properly, a small smile on his face as he checked her knee and elbow. Dave had done his best at cleaning the road rash, and what was left were angry red patches of torn skin, both at least an inch and a half wide and long, alongside some smaller ones in other places that didn ’t look half as bad. The wounds were still bleeding, although not excessively, but Dave had still had to dab at them with the disinfectant and handkerchiefs every five minutes for the past half an hour after finishing the initial clean-up. He and Vera had been sitting in the kitchen for the whole time, waiting for the dads, and had ended up watching funny Vine compilations from Youtube to pass time and keep Vera’s mind off from the stinging ache in her body.

Vera had been handling it well, much to Dave ’s relief — with an iron-like mind, the only tears and sobs that had escaped having been let out through clenched teeth, her frustration at showing her pain plain in her demeanour. But now, with Dad there and Pop apparently making his way inside as well, Vera seemed to finally realise what had happened, and that their parents were  _ there. _

Her lip curled downwards, eyes narrowing, and then violent sobs started jerking her body, more out of relief than actual pain this time.

“Hey,” Dad said softly, running a gentle hand over the side of her face, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear affectionately. “It’s alright love, we’re here, you’re fine, everything’s alright.”

Vera nodded but the sobs didn ’t die down, and Dad pulled her into a hug again, careful not to hurt her left side.

“Hi there road-battler!” Pop’s cheerful voice penetrated the kitchen and he finally appeared, hovering behind Dad’s back with a large grin aimed at Vera, who was facing him over Dad’s shoulder. Dave could hear her giggle before the sound morphed into another sob.

“Sorry it took so long, we stopped at Sainsbury’s to get some super pain-killing medicine,” Pop explained and breezed past Dad and Vera (he never just _walked),_ skipping over to the freezer to push several containers of ice cream inside. Huh. Well, if there had to be one good thing coming out of Vera’s injury…

“Let’s patch ye up, shall we?” Pop turned to Vera, his smile never wavering. Dave found himself calmed by both the expression and the gentle air that was radiating from Pop, and knew that it’d be the same for his sister; when Pop had that smile in place, everything would turn out fine.

Pop left hand-in-hand with Vera to go into the upstairs bathroom for the  “patching up” (to wrap her in bandages from head to toe), and Dad came over to Dave, unceremoniously leaning down to hug him without waiting for any initiation on his part.

Dave took in a shuddering breath, surprised by the onslaught of emotions that was suddenly coursing through him at Dad ’s actions. He had— he had just been a little bit scared, and was now a little bit relieved, and the dads were  _ there, _ so everything would be  _ fine _ _ … _ He couldn ’t find any other explanations as to why his arms came up to hold onto Dad’s shirt tightly, keeping him in place as he breathed deeply against the man’s shoulder, his secure scent filling Dave’s world, arms around his shoulders telling Dave that he could finally stop worrying.

“You did really, really good,” Dad said softly, running a hand through Dave’s hair, laying a small kiss on top of his head. “First class honours. Ten out of ten. Would absolutely recommend.”

Dave started laughing, relief bubbling out of his chest in a form that was less embarrassing than tears, and Dad squeezed him tightly with a deep, relieved sigh.

“Thank God you were here,” he just said then, simply as that, and Dave felt a surge of pride in his chest. Dad swore by utter honesty, and didn’t withhold his praises in general, but this time it felt extra special. It really felt like Dave was the saving grace of the day, and to his slight surprise he also believed it was so. And Dad was _honestly_ grateful for his actions.

He felt good. And then he thanked himself, too, because woah, he ’d done a fucking  _ great _ job at the whole big brothering thing. All the kudos to him. Go Dave!

***~**~***

“ _Is she alright?”_ Paul’s mother asked with a note of worry in her voice, while Chuck’s excited chattering could be heard in the background. He was apparently explaining the contents of a Thomas the Tank book to Paul’s father, and Paul could imagine his dad nodding along with full interest, as one did upon hearing about a story they’ve read about a million times with seven different kids (since Paul’s brother Michael had four of them, all older than Chuck).

“Yeah,” he sighed into the mic hanging in front of his mouth. He was using his earphones for the call, since the responsibility of making the dinner had fallen upon him after John had slithered into the living room and managed to start a game of Mario Kart before Paul got a chance at discussing the meal arrangements… and one just did not interrupt a game of Mario Kart. Vera and Dave had joined John, and now there was loud chatter and laughter echoing from the living room. “She got a bit of a scare, but it’s not too bad. I mean…”

“ _It’s sort of bad, but not hospital-bad?”_

“Yeah,” Paul grimaced. “I hate seeing her hurt like that, but it could be _worse._ She ’s already talking about all her mates getting so jealous over her scars.”

“ _That’s something I’ve never understood — children are always so enthusiastic over_ _ **scars**_ _…”_

“I mean, I totally get it,” Paul said cheerfully and turned over the pieces of chicken he was frying on a pan. “I’m a bit jealous too, ‘cos they’re _marvellous,_ Mum. ”

“ _Sure, dear,”_ Mary deadpanned and Paul giggled. There was a moment ’s silence, and then, _“How’s Dave?”_

Paul paused to grab the curry from the cabinet over the stove, pursing his lips thoughtfully.

“Erm, I think he’s good, I hope. He did an _amazing_ job — Vera already said that she ’s never gonna complain about anything he does, ever again.”

“ _That’ll hold a day or two.”_

“At maximum,” Paul chuckled. The chicken started to look ready, and he checked that the rice wasn’t boiling over before proceeding to set the table. Chuck would stay over at Paul’s parents for the night, so there wouldn’t be any extra drama with him accidentally running into Vera, who had got over the shock, but was still hurting despite the painkiller John had given her earlier. There would also be the matter of changing the bandages Vera was wrapped into, and Paul knew from experience that it would hurt, and he didn’t necessarily want Chuck to _hear_ it.

Once the food was ready he headed for the living room doorway, leaning his shoulder against the white wooden frame as his gaze slid over the figures in the room: John and Vera on the couch, Dave in the armchair; Thisbe was lying in Dave ’s lap, and Pyramus was draped over John’s shoulder like a fur balloon filled with jelly. Martha had been accompanying Paul in the kitchen, probably finding the cooking much more interesting than the telly.

The atmosphere was light and cheerful, and Paul couldn ’t help but smile in relief. When Dave called earlier in the day, there had been a second or two of pure, terrible panic in Paul’s head. He knew he could always remember the lurch in his stomach upon hearing John’s words of Vera having fallen on her bike before seeing John’s worried, but not terrified expression. That had thankfully been enough for Paul to calm down, since if it was  _ bad, _ John would look much, much worse. And sound a tad more panicked as well.

He couldn ’t help but think of how much worse it could’ve been. Vera could’ve broken something, or hit his head, and Paul sent a small grateful thought to his past self that had insisted on the kids (and John) using helmets at all times when biking. At least he had known how to do  _ something _ right.

“The grub’s on the table,” he said once Dave had bombed John right at the finish line and breezed past him to the victory.

“You little—” John started with a seething voice while Vera cheered and Dave let out a joyous yell, pointing at John with victorious glee in a clear nonverbal shout of “in your face”.

“Losers _lose!!_ _”_ he exclaimed and John sucked in an offended breath.

“Disowning— I’m _disowning_ you! Ye wanker— ”

“John…” Paul said idly, trying to hold back his smile (and knowing he was failing) while both Vera and Dave had dissolved into chortles. “Don’t call our son a _wanker._ _”_

“I just disowned ‘im!!” John waved a hand in Dave’s direction, meeting Paul’s gaze with what would’ve been real anger if not for his eyes filled with mischief.

“Well, I didn’t, an’ as far as I’m concerned, you’re still my husband.”

“Technical details,” John snorted, starting to get up on his feet. “Okay, ye lot, food! I’m starving, and I didn’t even get the meatballs at IKEA.” 

Paul stayed in the doorway while John pulled Vera on her feet and then walked hand-in-hand with her past him, wearing a small, knowing grin. Paul nodded his head towards Dave subtly, and there was the smallest of movements in John ’s jaw as his lips pressed slightly together in a silent acknowledgement. The mute discussion happened so fast and sneakily that neither Vera nor Dave would have been able to read it, but John and Paul were experts in All Things Husband, including the expressions and communication without words.

Dave put the game and the controllers away, and Paul watched him with a small, fond smile. The lad got on his feet soon enough and started heading towards the doorway, raising his eyebrows questioningly at Paul who hadn ’t budged.

“Wha’?” Dave said, although not unfriendly or grumpily, which Paul counted as a victory already.

“Jus’ wanted to say how proud we are,” Paul said softly, meeting Dave’s eyes. The boy let out an incoherent sound, glancing down at his feet with an evident uncomfortable air around him. Right, feelings and such. Paul wouldn’t have known how to react to those either at Dave’s age.

Sometimes it was funny — for all the praise and attention people seemed to require, it seemed difficult to receive it so very often.

“Also, thank you,” Paul said sincerely, not quite able to stop his chest from warming with love and pride for his son. “You really saved the day.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Dave said cheekily, lifting his head at that with a spark in his eye, and Paul grinned as he spread his arms for the lad to succumb against him, hugging him exceptionally tightly. He was sure it couldn’t have been easy for Dave, to go through such a thing without his parents there. Paul wished it had been different, but what was in the past was in the past, and what mattered was that Dave had done a remarkable job, had kept his head cool and made the situation infinitely better just by being there.

Paul already knew he was going to be sobbing into the phone with George about his wonderful and amazing son soon enough.

He patted the boy on the shoulder and led him into the kitchen, an arm securely around the lad ’s shoulders. Dave smiled at him briefly before pulling away to sit down at the table, and Paul took his seat next to Vera, who had already filled her plate with rice (which she loved even more than pasta. Go figure. Paul sure liked spaghetti the best).

“I was thinking that we should watch something after tea,” John said as Paul started cutting up one of the chicken breasts, moving the pieces onto Vera’s plate without even thinking; with her arm hurting and muscles stiff it would be painful to cut the chicken, and she shot him a thankful smile, which he returned fondly.

“Yeah,” he nodded in response to John, and glanced from his husband to his two children for suggestions. Vera looked thoughtful, no doubt going through their DVD collection in her head, and Dave hummed while chewing on his chicken.

“How about,” he said after swallowing, “we start watching FMA? It’s on Netflix.”

“FMA?” Paul raised and eyebrow while John started slowly smiling. Damn him, always more up to the things the children were talking about. He knew all about the games they were playing, and had read the same comics and watched the same series — all from practically being _home_ all the time while Paul did all the hard work. The bastard had probably watched all of Game of Thrones as well, and was now cackling behind Paul ’s back for knowing all the spoilers, while Paul tried to read them in a desperate fast pace to keep up with what everything was talking about.

“Fullmetal Alchemist,” Vera explained. “It’s anime.”

“It’s really good,” John said and the two children nodded along. Paul raised an eyebrow. Well.

“Well, if it’s good, of course we gotta watch it then,” he said and Vera cheered while Dave grinned at him widely (and _wow,_ that was a _wide_ smile, oh God, Paul might succumb into tears. It felt like it had been _years_ since he ’d seen _that_ particular smile).

“You won’t regret it,” John said, and Paul wished with all his heart that the man was right.

“Now, since that’s decided… have I ever told ye lot about the time I fell on me face at the tender age of eight, just a day before school photos were taken, ‘n as a result I sported this road-rash under me nose in the photos,” John grinned, and Paul’s mouth started suspiciously wavering.

Vera and Dave burst into laughter, and Paul tried to hide his smile into his glass of water.

John ’s gaze turned slowly to him, devilish and calculating all of a sudden, and oh  _ no, _ Paul was right in the middle of a sip—

“And it was shaped just like Hitler’s moustache.”

In Paul ’s opinion, John was fully responsible for the water spat at his face upon Paul succumbing into a laughter fit that was only rivalled by Dave’s and Vera’s hysteric chortles.

***~**~***

“I feel like the gods are somewhat against us buying a new couch,” John said as he absent-mindedly pulled on the first loose trousers he’d found. Yesterday had certainly been a somewhat shaking experience, the worry he’d felt for their daughter still embedded deep into his bones. He couldn’t very well get rid of that feeling of helplessness and utter _coldness_ that had washed over him upon hearing the words _“Vera has fallen on bike”._

It wasn ’t like… it wasn’t like the kids hadn’t been injured before — hell, Dave had fallen down the bloody stairs once! But before, John… 

John had _always_ _been home._ He had been there to assess the situation, had seen whether the kids were _actually_ hurt, and that in itself had given his frightened feelings a certain peace. And now… he hadn’t… he _hadn_ _’t been there._ Vera’s outburst upon them arriving home had proved how scared and shaken she truly had been, and John wasn’t sure if he could ever forget the sound of her relieved, unhinged cry before she’d thrown herself against John’s neck.

He  _ hated _ himself for not having been home.

A small part of him was determinedly blaming himself over the incident. He knew it was stupid and that there was nothing he could ’ve done, but… if he and Paul had only waited thirty minutes  more before leaving. If John hadn ’t insisted on getting it done sooner than later — if he only had  _ been  _ there …

“Oh no,” Paul commented from the bed, still buried under the covers with his eyes closed; school was starting soon, and understandably the man wanted to enjoy these final moments of Not Having To Get Up At Seven. “Not even God could stand in my way. Nuh-uh. I’m getting that bloody couch.”

John chuckled and proceeded to pull on an old white t-shirt with Kurt Cobain ’s faded face printed on it. Paul opened his eyes and watched him lazily with a slightly confused expression.

“How’re you on yer feet anyway?”

“I’m gonna check on Vera,” John said and walked to the door that let out a small creak upon being opened. “I can make brekky as well.”

“Sounds good,” Paul muttered from the bed, turning to his side and wrapping the blanket tighter around himself. He looked so cute there, intoxicating even, all bundled up with his hair sticking up and eyes puffy, and John smiled at the man before exiting the room. 

He made his way to Vera ’s room that was situated on the other side of the landing, a poster of Ariana Grande planted on her door. Both she and Chuck still slept with their doors open during the night, and so it was easy for him to hear her shifting around, evidently awake.

He knocked on the door carefully and upon hearing her responding, vague sound, he pushed his head in through the crack in the doorway, taking in the situation. Vera looked up at him, having apparently been reading a book, sitting on her bed with the bandaged leg hanging over the edge of the bed, and the other crossed under her body. She looked tired, and John doubted she ’d slept well.

“Hi, love,” he greeted softly, stepping wholly inside and making his way towards the bed to sit next to her. “How’re you?”

“It’s hurting,” Vera said, looking up at him pitifully, although her tone tried to stay nonchalant… like having half of her body aching didn’t affect her in the least. Oh, John’s sweet, bullheaded girl, who thought that showing weakness and pain was for sissies. If it had been anyone but John asking, she would’ve probably chosen to downplay her words as well. At least now she was _saying_ the truth, more or less.

“I’ll give you a painkiller in a minute,” John smiled, ignoring the ache in his own body from having his little girl hurt like this. _God,_ how he wished he ’d been there… “Let’s change those bandages, ‘ey?”

Vera nodded and started slowly shifting, moving off from the bed with stiff movements. John almost winced in sympathy, but managed to school his expression into gentle calmness. He ’d learnt the hard way that when one’s child was hurt, the only thing that could make the situation worse was the parent panicking. John, who was very often overridden by his emotions in a near irrational way, had found it a long and winding road to get to this point where he could just calmly stare at his daughter grimacing at the mere act of lifting her arm.

“Come ‘ere,” he said and got back on his feet, pressing a careful hand against Vera’s upper back to lead her towards the bathroom. “Ye know, I could bet the road looks worse.”

Vera laughed, and something akin to relief loosened the tightness of John ’s chest as he grinned at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact - something akin to this chapter's sheningnans happened to me, where I was in Dave's shoes - but fear not, I had no panic, because it was very recently and I know how to patch up a 16-year old brother. I can safely say that research has been done all the same and the way Dave treats Vera is the right way. So if you ever need to patch up a little sister/brother and think back to this fic, then, well, you're welcome. haha
> 
> This chapter wrapped up the summer holidays. Next up in the timeline is school starting - which doesn't go as smoothly as one would think - and a small addition to the family! But before that there will be three flashback chapters... that require hours and hours of research, and will probably take me months to write, but they are coming! One day. So hang onto your horses people, next chapter will be a whole different ride!


	12. What's My Royal Title? Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the law changed in 2002 to enable adoption for all couples, Paul and John bought a house with too many bedrooms from Thomas Lane, Liverpool.
> 
> Is it finally time to put those rooms into good use?
> 
> **A prequel.**
> 
> **Chapter warnings:** Swearing, and lots and lots of feelings... also one cold-blooded murder, but... one you're likely to be cheering on with that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Were you waiting for this chapter to come so quickly? _Ikr!_ I wasn't either! This was originally going to be much, much longer, and when it seemed like I was going over 10k without even having got to the _actual_ subject at hand... I decided to break it into parts! So here you have part 1 of... Well! Here we begin a whole new (or old?) chapter for the fic! It will be at least _three_ parts long (depending on... how much I write....) and will most likely answer many, _many_ questions. 
> 
> Hopefully you're as excited to be reading this as I have been writing it! I just simply can't resist this story, hahah. The plot here just whisked me away! Hahah
> 
> For thorough notes, see the end of the fic. I also want to thank wholeheartedly my beta Daisy, who's been my lifeline during the whole process, and also [Me-fish](http://me-fish.tumblr.com/), who's a fellow finn and gave me invaluable help in the form of keeping me believing that I can do this. Because this chapter was HARD to write (due to the amount of RESEARCH)
> 
> I hope you enjoy - may this be your Christmas present!! Please tell me all your thoughts on this, I love to hear them all! (And they always inspire me to write more!)

_ Early 2005  _

The telephone on the wall was ringing persistently, the sound cutting through the house. One silver tabby was lying on the kitchen table, watching the loud device with lazy eyes, the tip of the cat’s tail swooping from left to right in an unhurried, small motion, while another cat was sitting under the telephone, screaming at it out of sympathy. The radio was playing the evening program, with the impressive singing of Mariah Carey joining the cacophony created by the telephone and the screaming brown tabby.

Paul crashed into the kitchen with all the grace of someone who’d just been in the process of drying up his hair after a shower, and had then proceeded to trip down the stairs with water ending up _everywhere._

“Pyramus — jeez, lower it down a bit, will ye?” He glared at the brown cat after taking in the situation, eyes quickly sweeping over the lasagne that was baking in the oven. So it had not boiled over yet. That, if something, was a success.

He reached out for the phone, Pyramus now circling his legs with meows that were much quieter — but still gave Mariah Carey a run for her money.

“Hello?”

“ _Good evening, is this Paul? Karen here — hopefully I didn’t interrupt anything?”_ the kind and polished voice of their social worker met Paul’s ears, and almost immediately his heart dropped into the very pit of his stomach.

Oh. Oh oh.

“N-no, not at all,” he stuttered into the receiver, glancing around the kitchen with his shoulders tense. Water dripped down his back, making him shudder — or was it the sudden nerves? “How— how are you?”

“ _Oh, perfectly fine. Had a bit of a cold, but thankfully it has passed by now — may I suggest you sit down?”_

_Oh._

Paul sat down in one of the kitchen chairs, the chord of the phone thankfully long enough for the reach. Right at that moment there was noise from the garage, and John emerged into the hallway with the car keys in one hand, his jacket hanging from the other. Both Pyramus and Thisbe started approaching him with greeting meows, but John didn’t pay any attention to them; he had frozen in place the moment he saw Paul through the open kitchen doorway, the eye contact between them and Paul’s harried state enough to indicate what was going on.

“S-so..?” Paul said, the words vague and detached in his dry mouth, heart hammering against his ribcage. John took a step forward, his eyes widening in a wordless question, and Paul could see fear in his gaze.

There was a moment’s silence, and then,

“ _Congratulations — it’s been approved.”_

Paul’s breath hitched, his hand rising to his mouth, and with his eyes hanging onto John in a frantic attempt of holding himself together, he jerked his head in a nod to answer the desperate question in John’s tense expression.

_It had been approved._

John’s legs seemed to give over and he fell down to his knees, face flushing as his lips formed a disbelieving, soundless “really?”. Paul clutched at the phone with a suddenly shaking hand, and nodded again, barely able to comprehend it.

_Approved._

“R-really?” he exhaled, the sound coming out breathy and faint, and he could hear Karen chuckle.

“ _Yes, congratulations. We can start the process of matching you with the right child.”_

Even upon trying, Paul couldn’t later have recalled what Karen said next, because his mind was too busy reeling over that sentence.

***~**~***

“Oh my God,” Paul said slowly after having put the receiver back to its place on the wall. “Oh God, _John—_ _”_ his voice broke and he heaved a sob, relief coursing through his body as he turned in a flurry, rushing into the hallway where John was still kneeling down, blinking up at him with his eyes starting to look suspiciously wet.

“We’re gonna be dads,” John whispered, voice broken and full of disbelief, and Paul succumbed down on the floor next to him, throwing his arms around his fiancé and pressing his still damp, bare chest into the man’s denim jacket.

“We’re gonna be dads,” he choked, shaking against John’s shoulder as he was pulled into a tighter embrace, and upon hearing John sniff against him he couldn’t help but break down, happiness pouring out in the form of warm, wet tears.

***~**~***

Paul was, more or less, terrified. A life-long dream was finally becoming true — after months and months of tense waiting, applications, interviews, and people who scoffed at them behind their backs… they were finally getting there. Up until now they had been going to classes to learn about being an adoptive parent, had been harassed by several social workers, had had more discussions over their qualifications than he could remember — they had had to assure that the cats weren’t a problem, and that if ever there was a clash between the adopted child and the animals, they would get rid of them.

Above all, they had had to confirm countless times that despite them being two men, they were capable.

And now… now, _finally — their application had been accepted._

Of course he knew that it would take a long time, many months before they could actually get the child, and it wasn’t even _legal_ for them to adopt with the law having yet to come to force, but … the process had started. Had _really_ started.

‘ _In a few months, we’re going to_ _ **meet**_ _the kid,_ _’_ Paul thought hazily as he hugged his knees closer to his chest, curled into a sitting position in the bath. He could hear the cats meowing outside the bathroom door, wanting to come in and check that he was alive, but the muffled sounds seemed to enter his ears slowly without him processing them wholly.

One thought kept entering his head, bringing on the feeling of terror, and he pressed his cheek against his knees while closing his eyes, trying to calm his racing emotions down.

What if… what if he didn’t want the kid? What if the excitement of being a father died down after some time, and he found he’d done a mistake? What if he didn’t really _want_ this, but just fancied the thought?

…He knew it wasn’t like that though. He had _always_ known he’d want kids. He had dreamt about it even as a child, had always enjoyed playing with his younger cousins, had loved taking care of the youngest of them when he was a teenager — no, Paul was going to be fine. He wanted this, and even though upon falling in love with John he had accepted that this dream might never come to pass, because John was a priority after all… Now he was ready to fight till death for his right to have a child. _Because they would have the right to adopt,_ in just a few more months. Just a _few_ more.

And Paul was _finally_ going to be a _father._

He let out a shuddering breath, his cheekbone pressing uncomfortably against his legs, and he turned his head to lay his chin on his knee instead. It was useless to wonder whether he would really want it or not, since in his heart he knew that they were making the right choice.

But there was another pressing thought that he’d been wondering about, and now that they had got a green light for adoption it kept pestering him without a break:

What if _John_ didn’t really want it?

It had never been a dream of his, not to the same extent as for Paul. He knew that John would’ve never even _thought_ of suggesting the engagement were he not serious about becoming a father... All their actions had been leading to the moment where they could look at a child and call him or her their own — starting with buying the fucking house! And John had never said otherwise, just acknowledged that one day they were going to be parents. He talked about it often, either jokingly or dreamingly, pushing the applications forward with full force, relentlessly determined to go through with it…

…But what if he was only doing it for Paul? What if his determination came from the thought that he was either getting a child or losing Paul?

Paul had been ready to live the rest of his life without kids if it meant he could spend that eternity with John. Was John applying the same logic, but only reversed?

Paul would never want to force John into something like that. Having kids was a life-long commitment. It wasn’t like buying a house, or buying cats, or even _getting engaged._ All those things were something that one could, if so desired, get rid of. Kids… not so much. The children would be there even after the house was sold, the cats were dead and the engagement had been broken off. There was no backing up if they decided to adopt.

Paul knew he’d have to be sure that John wanted it. _John_ would have to be sure he wanted it. Because Paul _wouldn_ _’t_ subject his _fianc_ _é,_ the _love_ of his bloody _life_ to unwanted parenthood. If John indeed thought that Paul would leave him in case John admitted to not wanting to have children … then he had nothing to fear for, because Paul wouldn’t do it, not in a million years. He’d be terribly down for some time for sure, but it’d be his choice — it’d be _John_ _’s_ choice. With something as huge as this, Paul wasn’t going to push his own wishes through. (Unlike in some other cases.)

What a pity one couldn’t compromise when it came to adopting.

He twisted his engagement ring in his finger, absent-mindedly turning it around a couple of times. There was a promise carved inside of it, a promise that would hold no matter what. Paul had vowed to do everything in his power to keep this ring in his finger for the rest of his life, because that was what they’d _promised_ to each other.

Even if that life was without children.

The cats started suddenly screeching behind the door, stealing Paul’s attention, and not a second after John was coming into the bathroom, holding the cats away with one foot while he masterfully manoeuvred himself inside through the small gap between the door and the doorway.

“Space for two?” he asked, even though he didn’t need to, and Paul nodded with a grin, even though he also didn’t need to. John managed to close the door without any of the hollering cats coming in, and Paul clapped his hands together lazily a few times to acknowledge John’s snake-like abilities in holding off the screaming herd of fur while slithering in like that.

“Thank you, thank you,” John bowed to no one in particular before he yanked off his jumper in one go, revealing a white tank-top that soon came off as well, both shirts thrown on top of Paul’s pile of clothes. Paul shifted back in the tub while John was pulling off his jeans, and in no time the man slipped into the water, sliding down to sit opposite to the tub’s previous occupant.

They stared at each other for a moment, and then John’s face lit up with a giddy smile, his whole body almost vibrating as he ran a wet hand over his face and through his hair, his fringe sticking up in an adorable way as a result.

“I can’t _believe_ it,” he said, sounding like he was barely holding himself together from jumping into the ceiling and sticking to it like Spider-Man. “We’ve been dreamin’ for _so long_ — an’ now it’s comin’ _true!_ _”_

“I know,” Paul said softly, managing a small smile while his previous thoughts came crashing back to the surface. He twisted his ring again, eyes falling down to John’s one that was glistening with water, the ceiling light reflecting from it. “It’s unbelievable.”

John seemed to stop in his thoughts and narrowed his eyes at him, his suddenly scrutinising gaze penetrating through Paul, reading him like a book. Paul could rarely hide his true feelings from the man — even while he managed to fool John with his words quite easily, his _feelings_ were never left unnoticed. John was some sort of a bloodhound when it came to sensing Paul’s moods, and sometimes it was some sort of a blessing; a proof that they were made for each other. Now it only served to worry and annoy Paul.

John frowned, and pulled back a bit, the excited glee in his eyes replaced by confusion and worry.

“You’re not happy,” he said carefully, and Paul sighed, closing his eyes. Damn John and his too accurate Paul-mood radar.

“I…” he started, fidgeting a bit. How to bring up the subject with the man? They needed to talk about it, and this moment was better than most — the water was still warm, and Paul was feeling comfortable (aside from his small fears)… and they were close to each other, legs sprawled into a shared pile.

He knew he’d be fooling himself if he said this wasn’t the best moment.

“I think I’m jus’ a bit terrified, ‘s all,” he shrugged, opening his eyes to stare at his fingers, to look at the engagement ring.

“ _Y’know… They have to change the law someday, so… would you stick by me till that date, and then wear a pink dress for me?”_

“ _Sure. If I get to be ‘Pop’.”_

What kind of an answer had that been? They had laughed about the whole proposal, John had been radiantly happy with that answer and still snickered at it occasionally, but Paul had set the tone for their relationship, for their upcoming marriage (although God knew _when_ that would happen) right there and then. John had _known_ that they’d get to this point, eventually.

Maybe he’d just thought that the marriage came sooner than the kids, or that they’d be too old when the adoption law was passed, or—

“Aren’t we all?” John’s voice broke him out of his thoughts and he lifted his head, meeting the man’s eyes. The contact between them lasted for a moment, and this time it was John who turned his gaze away, suddenly looking uncomfortable. Paul raised a questioning eyebrow at him; he was first and foremost a supporting partner, and if John had worries, it was Paul’s job to soothe them over.

“It’s— I fear I’m gonna muck up the kid,” John made a face, and Paul felt his stomach constrict at those words, at that expression. Oh — of _course_ John would think that— “I fear I’m gonna do all the same mistakes as me dad.”

Paul opened his mouth with his chest flaring with battle-ready emotions, prepared to tell John off for even _thinking_ something like that, but John shot him a look and Paul let the words die on his tongue, just watching and listening to what his fiancé had to say. The fire never settled inside of him, though; it wouldn’t, not until Paul was able to convince John otherwise.

“Of course I know that there’s the whole influence from Mum ‘n Todd, an’ yer parents as well, but…” John sighed, shrugging helplessly. “I don’t wanna be a shit dad. We’re giving— we’re givin’ a brand new life to someone who’d otherwise have it real shitty, and… I _wanna_ give ‘em that life. But I’m afraid I’ll— I’ll do somethin’ wrong, an’ then the kid’s as fucked up as _I_ am.”

“You’re not fucked up,” Paul murmured, the sound traversing the small space between them, water splashing against the sides of the bathtub as he shifted to rub at John’s thigh with his toes comfortingly. “John, you’re _not._ We’ve gone through this.”

“What’re you afraid of?” John shot as a response, eyes drilling into Paul’s, and Paul couldn’t turn his gaze away as he was held captive by that tense, piercing look.

“I’m afraid you don’t really want this,” he said tersely, deciding not to beat around the bush with it. Honesty usually worked best with John after all. It was like ripping off a plaster; the situation might be tense for a while, there might be a few outbursts, but it was better than sitting in silence for days, getting increasingly angry with the other for withholding information.

John’s eyes widened just for a fraction, the man’s mouth slipping open in bafflement.

“I fear that… that I’m forcin’ you into somethin’ ye don’t want,” Paul continued, letting out a small exhale. “Since ye think I’d only marry you if we got kids. Which is not true, John, we’ll get married _no matter what._ _”_ His tone started getting urgent, his words driven by the need to make John understand — to give him the final chance to pull back from this, to give him the happiest life possible without any requirements from Paul’s part.

“I won’t leave you, ever, _ever_ in me life, even if ye didn’t want this,” he said, and even though his heart was hammering against his chest, fear eating him that John was indeed going to say no, that there _would be no child —_ he still knew it to be the right choice, to give John that chance to choose for himself.

John stared at him with his mouth hanging open.

“…Are you _joking??_ … _What?_ _”_

Paul blinked and opened his mouth to explain it better, to go into more detail, but John got there first as his voice became utterly bewildered, his expression frozen into that of complete astonishment and maybe slight anger as well.

“Ye think I wouldn’t want this??”

“I’m just— I _know_ havin’ kids has never been yer dream,” Paul said, feeling a bit helpless.

John scoffed and ran both of his hands through his hair, wetting it more. Droplets of water ran down his face and even while wildly drowned in his emotions, Paul was still captivated by the sight… deciding that no matter what happened in the bathtub now, tonight they’d make love.

“Love— ugh, I can’t _believe_ ye’re stressin’ about _this —_ it’s never been a _dream,_ but that doesn’t mean I don’t _want_ it,” John sighed, then muttered, “I get why you’d wonder that, though.”

He let his hands fall into the water with a small splosh, and silence took over the bathroom for a moment. Only the cats were still making ruckus outside, and Paul thought that in a few months, it might be a child calling for them through the bathroom door.

No matter the subject at hand, his heart still gave a happy jolt.

“Listen, mate,” John shifted, looking around in a way that signified a discussion involving romantic emotions coming through — John had never been the most comfortable talking about such things and tobe fair, neither was Paul. They didn’t shy away from it completely though… like some other pairs.

Paul knew why John would want to avoid his gaze with such topics; he too got the feeling of simply exploding with love if he happened to look at John while telling the man how important he was, and it was difficult holding a deep, meaningful conversation while both of them were flaring red in the face.

“I… didn’t dream about havin’ someone like ye either, an’ now… I wouldn’t be able to live without you. I— I’m jus’ sayin’ that I’m gonna love the kid with all me heart, and more.”

His eyes were once again piercing through Paul while his cheeks were getting suspiciously rosy, and his next words were said softly and carefully.

And Paul _knew_ he was telling the truth.

“I _wanna_ be a dad. _And_ I want you to be one as well. I want us _both_ to be dads, _together._ _”_

Paul digested that, and then a small smile broke through his expression, a mischievous glint entering his eyes.

“‘Cept that I’ll be the _Pop._ _”_

“Poppin’ an’ snappin’,” John grinned, and suddenly the giddiness was back in him, and Paul could feel it pulsing through his body as well, filling him to the very core.

_They were gonna be dads. And John wanted it._

They washed each other’s backs, laughing and joking through their usual ordeal, and eventually John had to get up when the cats started resembling air-raid alarms.

Paul smiled at him widely while the man was wrapping himself into his bathrobe, and John winked back at him before rolling a towel up on his head to dry his hair.

“Sorry, but I’ll have to silence the children,” he grinned, and Paul chuckled before John slipped out of the bathroom. Pyramus and Thisbe stopped their ungodly screaming right at that moment to the plain relief of everyone involved in the situation.

Paul rested his chin against his knees again, the tub feeling too big for one person now that his other half was gone, and twisted at his ring as he fell into his thoughts.

Well. It seemed that he really had nothing to worry about. He’d have to talk with John about the man’s insecurities over him fucking up the child — which Paul didn’t believe in the _least,_ because despite all of John’s faults he was a deeply loving man, highly intelligent as well, and would do his damn best at bettering his father.

Which reminded Paul that there was a call to be made, too, because it was time to put an end to the poison that John’s father spit into his son. Paul was not going to let that happen anymore, and now he finally had the perfect way to stop it, for once and for all.

He twisted the ring around again, fingers stroking it’s smooth, golden surface, and he couldn’t help but smile as his chest tightened with warmth, happiness and love filling him. Just to bask in that feeling for a bit longer he pulled the ring off and squinted at the curved inner side, looking at the words that were carved in there, the same joy filling him as when John had first slipped that ring into his finger after having received his own.

_Grow old with me._

Paul smiled, and put the ring back to where it belonged.

***~**~***

Two months later, they were sitting in Karen’s office, tense as boards as their hands were squeezing each other tightly under the table.

Karen, a plump woman in her 50’s with a permanent and a pearl necklace around her neck, smiled at them from the other side of the table, and slowly pushed a yellow paper folder towards them.

“This is a bit of an unusual case,” she started, both men staring at the folder without making any moves to open it. “I was contacted by my friend, who works for an adoption agency in France. I know you weren’t looking for an international adoption, and we don’t usually do this either, but… the word came through the grapevine, so to speak. I was asked whether we would have a suitable family for a child, who is a bit of a particular case.”

She regarded John and Paul quietly, all traces of smile gone from her face. Instead it was replaced by a deeply sympathetic expression, her brown eyes flickering towards the folder.

“The adoption is treated as a closed one. There won’t be a way to contact the mother, as wished by her. Upon hearing about the child, I immediately thought about you two… because what this child needs is an open-minded family, who is ready to love them despite their origins.”

“They want the child to have as much of a fresh start as possible, preferably out of France. Both for the child’s own personal good, and also due to many families having certain… prejudices. But I think… you two might just be what they’re looking for. I’ve already informed them that we have a same-sex couple looking to adopt, and… well, they weren’t all exactly happy, but I’ve vouched for you. It’ll be a full paper war, but… hopefully we’ll avoid casualties.”

Karen offered a quick smile before her expression returned to a serious one. She leaned towards them slightly, her gaze gentle but firm as her eyes glided from John to Paul, who were just staring at her in full immobility.

“You can say no, and we’ll keep looking locally as we’ve done so far. And I’d rather tell you about the child’s origins before you decide anything. It’s nothing _complicated,_ but… terrible for a small child that might or might not leave a trace. You’ll have all our support if you decide to go through with this, but I have in full belief that a proper home works wonders — a home offered by you two.”

She waited, and Paul and John finally moved to turn their heads to lock their gazes into an eye contact that said more than words ever could.

They stared at each other — and after a few tense seconds and a small squeeze of their hands, nodded simultaneously before turning their gazes back on Karen.

She smiled, looking satisfied, and pulled back from her previous position to lean against the backrest of her chair.

“The mother… she worked — still does, I assume — as a… well, she was a sex worker. I don’t know the details, but… apparently she was raped, and this child was conceived as a result. The father of course disappeared and was never caught, and the mother couldn’t report the rape due to her… line of work. She kept the child with her for two years in places that are… non-suitable, and then came to the conclusion that it was better if she gave them up for adoption, to give the child a chance at a good life.”

“There are of course more things to discuss here, like the upcoming paper war between France and England, but I’ll let you think about this for some time. I’ll be back in twenty minutes — I’ll leave the file here,” she tapped at the folder, watching John and Paul with a kind expression.

“Usually we don’t do it quite like this, but… you two are already a bit unusual,” she smiled, and Paul and John’s lips twitched faintly, their stares blank as their eyes were drawn to the folder almost magnetically. “And I think you’re exactly what this child needs. But I’ll leave you to think about it.”

She walked to the door, gave them one last smile, and then disappeared accompanied by the sound of the door closing with a small click.

Paul and John turned to look at each other.

“Is this— did you hear what I just heard?” John whispered, his voice breaking as he stared at Paul desperately, needing all the confirmation in the world that he’d heard _right._ Paul sucked in a breath and then nodded, clutching at John’s fingers under the table with both of his hands. The moment Karen had left the office, he had started shaking.

“That— that kid could be _ours,_ _”_ John said faintly, eyes sweeping over to the folder that was lying innocently on top of the table’s wooden surface, its yellow colour bright and piercing like a torch.

“D-do you wanna—” Paul started, looking like he was so high strung on nerves that he could provide electricity for a whole household, “—w-wanna look, look at the—”

“I don’t care where the kid comes from,” John said with his voice cracking, something weird pooling in his stomach. He almost felt like throwing up from the anticipation, from the tension in his body that had lasted ever since they’d got a call from Karen to come to the office as soon as they could manage. The feeling swirled and turned, twisting in his gut, and he realised somewhat hazily that it was fear mixed with euphoria.

There was a child _waiting for them._

Paul looked at him, and nodded.

And then reached forward to pull the folder right in front of them.

John’s heart was thrumming in his throat, so high up and strong that it felt like he was about to spew it out. He could hear Paul’s uneven, slightly rattled breathing coming from his left, giving away the fact that the man was not faring much better.

Paul slipped a finger under the cover of the folder, and with a deep breath he flipped it open.

A picture of a small boy with large brown eyes, tanned skin and black, curly hair was staring at them with a slightly demure expression, biting on his lower lip, and it was right at that moment that John fell in love.

He could barely tear his eyes away from the boy, his heart starting to thump in the rhythm of an instinct to protect, to keep this child safe. The boy stared right through his soul, crawling inside him with his button nose and chocolate eyes, and John was ready to hang the moon for him.

He wasn’t sure where the feeling had come from, but then again — he had been preparing for the moment of becoming a father for months. But it was now that the feeling became a concrete one, something he could touch and put a name to. Something he could justify by looking at this photograph.

“Jean David,” Paul whispered, and John’s head snapped towards him. Paul was staring at the text that was next to the boy’s face, two red spots colouring his cheeks. There was a look in Paul’s eyes, akin to having seen something so beautiful he could never quite recover from it, his expression bordering to adoration. He was breathing much easier now, but John could still feel his hand shaking slightly where their fingers were still entwined.

John let his gaze trail into the text, and his heart gave another strong jump at seeing the boy’s name with his own eyes.

_Jean David._

“Three years old, a bit shy,” Paul read aloud from the description, and there was fondness in his voice already, fondness and _longing,_ and John knew that he’d do anything to get this kid if it made Paul sound like that. And he’d do anything to get this kid, because he made John _feel_ like _this._

“He likes building Legos.”

“Loves to look at picture books and watch children’s programmes,” John murmured as he read the next paragraph, his shoulder pressing against Paul’s as they hunched together over the text. John quickly pushed his glasses higher on his nose, only then realising that his skin was damp with sweat, having causing for the glasses to have slid down in the first place. “Likes Teletubbies the most.”

“He really likes animals,” Paul said, and his voice sounded choked now. John squeezed at his hand tighter before Paul pulled it away from his grasp to wrap his shaking arm around John’s shoulders, clutching at him against his side like he was never going to let go.

“Looks— looks like a decent chap. An’ comes with the guarantee of pissin’ off France, which I’m always in for,” John said, and Paul let out a chuckle that was cut off abruptly with a sound that resembled a sob when John leaned as close to the man as he could.

_Jean David, 3 years old._

“Yeah?” he asked, voice barely audible.

“Yeah,” Paul said, and John was forced to bring a hand up to wipe at his eyes.

Twenty minutes later Karen came back, and they gave her two beaming smiles.

_***~**~*** _

_ June, 2005  _

“We need to go to France to meet him first,” John said, pouring tea into eight mugs that were resting on a tray, back turned to the others in the room as he faced the kitchen counters. Pyramus jumped up on the counter next to him, trying to come closer and stick his head into John’s tea mug (he tended to do that), but John was faster and managed to throw the cat away.

“Pyramus— ‘ey, Pyramus!” George called in an attempt to distract the cat, and Pyramus let out a meow. There were shouts of protest as the cat apparently bounced on the table, and John managed to turn around with the tea tray in his hands just in time to see Paul getting up and hauling the cat to the ground.

“France, eh?” Ringo raised his eyebrows at them from where he was sitting between George and John’s mother Julia, who was currently reading through the file, a small smile on her face. Next to her at the head of the table Todd, her husband and John’s step-father was peering at the papers as well, looking somewhat conflicted; he hadn’t been very happy about the fact that John and Paul might adopt a French boy, but couldn’t resist the thought of getting a grandchild either.

“Yeah,” Paul said and returned to his seat in one corner of the table, his mother smiling up at him from where she was sitting in next to him. “We’re lucky it’s the summer holidays — so John’s takin’ time off work, we’re gonna stay there for a month, see David as much as possible… learn about ‘is culture as well, ‘cos that’s important. We gotta know where ‘e comes from.”

“David? But didn’t the file say ‘is name is Jean,” Paul’s father Jim frowned, squinting at Paul over his wife’s head. Todd was nodding along, arms crossed over his chest.

“It’s mentioned in the extra details that we got that his current foster family calls ‘im David, due to there bein’ another Jean in the family,” John said and started sharing the mugs around before toppling down at the head of the table, George to his left and Paul to his right. He’d usually sit opposite to Paul, but George had managed to sit his thin arse into that seat before John had a chance to call ownership. It wasn’t too bad sitting at the head though, since now he could see Todd frowning right on the opposite side of the long wooden table, the frown on his face approximately three inches deep now that the family was about to become _multicultural._ The _terror._

(Todd was a decent guy and a good husband, and John knew he’d make a swell grandfather as well, probably, but he was a bit of a conservative every now and then. Everyone who wasn’t a Scouser earned a certain look of distrust at first. _Especially_ if you were a farmer boy from Wales, John loved to remind Ringo, who sadly didn’t buy any of that bullshit.)

(The actual fact that saved Ringo from that suspicious eye was that he came from the Northern Wales; had he come from the South, the Distrustful Eye would have been much, much worse. And at least he spoke _English.)_

“Besides,” Paul shared a glance with John, and there was an undertone of happiness there that had been present ever since they’d come to the decision that this boy was the one; it had been a week since then, and John still woke up with the need to just euphorically shout out of the window. “Jean is a bit too close to John, an’ we don’t wanna confuse ‘im more than we do by default.”

“Ye’re very confusin’, ye are,” George nodded in agreement, and John gave him a grimace that signified “oh what a lovely bloody fucking joke, you’re hilarious”. George grinned at him in response, managing to look like an angel, and Ringo chuckled next to the man.

“But he doesn’t speak English at all, isn’t that right?” Mary asked, dropping two sugar cubes into her tea while Paul reached for the milk automatically to offer her some, years of habit slammed deep into his guts.

“He doesn’t,” John said, “which is why it’s handy we got an English teacher present,” he waved a hand in Paul’s direction, who smiled at him widely. That was all they’d been doing for the past few days; smile. It was the last thing John saw in the evening, and the first thing in the morning, and if bringing a child into this family gave him _that_ on top of having an actual child… John was ready to get as many children as possible, if each of them widened Paul’s smile by an inch.

“It’s a bit different with 3-year olds,” Paul said, but the smile never left. “But it helps that I got the right education, like.”

Todd frowned.

“Why’d it ‘ave to be ‘im though — couldn’t ye ‘ave jus’ chosen a local fella, like?”

“No can do, Todd me mate,” John shook his head. “Davy ‘ere’s our choice.”

“Oh, I like that, I do,” Ringo raised an eyebrow. “Davy?”

“David, Davy, Dave, Davidee-davidaa, pick your choice,” Paul grinned and the whole table laughed, although Todd seemed a bit reluctant to do so. (Possibly because John had called him “Toddletee” for ages and now the man sensed a competition? What other reason could there be?)

George leaned over Ringo to snatch the file from Julia and Todd despite the small protests that the action caused, and Thisbe tried to jump on the table in John’s end. He managed to catch the cat and Paul made a face at the sight.

“Could ye put ‘em out?” he asked with small hopelessness in his voice, and John chuckled, carefully dropping Thisbe on the ground. He knew better than to hold the cat longer than for a few moments; he might risk losing his eyes.

“If ye can’t stand a few cats on the table, I’m not sure ye can handle a screamin’ child either, baby,” he grinned and Paul’s whole thought process seemed to come to an abrupt but happy end at the concept of having their own screaming child.

“I’m just wondering,” Jim piped up, watching at John and Paul with an identical frown to Todd’s, “that shouldn’t they have given you plenty of more choices?”

“That’s a good point,” Mary nodded, and Julia joined along in a terrifying display of their parents creating an iron-strong unit of Reason and Logic.

“It’s an unusual case,” Paul said, and now John, George and Ringo all nodded along in their own show of unity. “They asked us ‘cos we’re… different than most families. In a good way,” he shared a glance with John, who smiled back with his heart giving a few extra thumps. It always did when he and Paul did that eye contact of theirs — the one where they could reach each other’s thoughts just by looking at each other. It often reminded John of the first time they’d done it, at the party while stoned out of their arses, and he knew he’d never forget the rich feeling of _belonging_ that had taken over him then.

“They would’ve had a bunch of other kids, I bet,” John leaned forward with his elbows on the table, bringing his tea mug up to hover in front of his mouth. “But Karen seemed very adamant of us in particular takin’ Dave.”

“It sure says summat,” Ringo piped in, “that you already ‘ave nicknamed ‘im, yeah.”

Paul and John looked at each other again, and then grinned at their friend simultaneously.

“So…” George lifted his head from the papers, eyes looking suspiciously bright as his eyes lingered on David’s face. “He looks like a proper lad. What’s the next step?”

“Next? We’re gonna pay _a ton_ for a month-long accommodation somewhere in Paris,” Paul grimaced, but John knew it was just for the show. They were prepared, and had been saving for _years._ They’d started in 2000, and even while paying off the loan from the house they had kept it going. The adoption itself wouldn’t cost much, but children came with expenses, as Paul and John were very well aware of after a few months of going into “future parents” classes at their adoption agency.

“Bring us croissants,” George said immediately, and John laughed.

“We’re plannin’ on bringin’ somethin’ _much_ more than croissants, _Uncle George._ _”_

There was a moment’s silence, and then Ringo’s voice broke through it while George suspiciously sniffed a little,

“Oh, I like _that._ _”_

***~**~***

Paul sat inside their car in front of an old terraced house in Bootle two days after the whole family + George and Ringo had gathered together to (eventually) coo after David’s adorable face. The meeting had gone well — all things considered, and even Todd had seemed to warm up a bit by the time the bottom of the teapot had started showing. Enough black Yorkshire tea made anyone soften up for sure. (But no Earl Grey — heavens, no, because that was for the _posh_ only!)

(Paul liked Earl Grey. He _sure as hell_ was going to teach his kid to love it as well and not be such stuck-up person as Todd.)

Paul wondered what it was with John’s mother being attracted to such bullheaded men. He wouldn’t tell Julia off for it of course, no in a million years, and had always judged her silently in his head, rather than bring up his opinions on the subject — and Todd _was_ a good guy, he respected her and was a really good husband in general…

But the one before him…

It made him wonder how much alike with his son had John’s father been when younger, and whether Julia had been attracted by the same qualities that had made Paul love John so much. Had he been as charming, as fun with a prime sense of humour, and a killer taste in music? Had he been as _loving,_ and _caring,_ and _adoring_ as John tended to be, cherishing Paul over everything else, always putting him above the others (and making Paul feel so wonderfully special and _in love)?_

And if he’d not been like that… what on earth would’ve made such an intelligent, fun, and wonderful woman like Julia fall for one Alfred Lennon?

Paul _knew_ that people changed over time. John had. _Paul_ had. But Paul liked to believe that when it came to the two of them, it was for the better.

Maybe Alfred had changed as well, become bitter with age and alcohol… but on the other hand… Paul hadn’t seen any change in the man for the past ten years, and according to John, he had been a rather constant in his character for the twenty before that.

‘ _Well,’_ he thought as he pushed the car door open and got out, strolling towards the door with the stride of a man on a mission, _‘it’ll be seen whether he’s capable of change.’_

Because now was the high time for that. And Paul had been waiting for this moment for _twelve_ years. Twelve _hellish_ years of holding himself back, of standing in the background and following with sharp eyes how his lover was torn down again and again, piece by piece. Twelve years of Paul putting John back together, only for the damn phone to ring again.

_Twelve years._

Oh, he was going to enjoy _every_ bit of this.

He rang the bell, anticipation curling in his stomach, and a few moments later John’s father Alfred Lennon opened the door, looking as dishevelled and tired as ever. The bags under his eyes, his slightly protruding stomach and the receding hairline made him look about ten years older than what he actually was, and while Paul had never been to his house before he had anticipated the heavy smell of alcohol that hit his nostrils the moment the door was opened even a little.

Alfred stared at him with a confused expression, squinting a bit as if not sure whether he was real at all.

(Oh, he was real. He was _so_ very real. So real Al wouldn’t know what exactly hit him.)

“John’s not along?” the man then asked, his eyes (so similar to John’s but lacking _all_ that depth, all that _love)_ narrowing at Paul in perplexity.

“Oh, no, not for this,” Paul presented Alfred with his best full-fledged sunny smile, and the man was clearly taken aback enough to not even protest much when Paul pushed himself in. He didn’t bother with getting rid of his coat; he wouldn’t be here for long.

“Ye’ve never visited before, la’,” Alfred said once the door was closed and Paul had made himself comfortable, standing next to the kitchen table (which was covered in empty beer bottles), arms crossed over his chest and the same bright smile still plastered on his face. The room was dirty with empty food packets and beer cans lying around, something that looked like… soup? splattered on the floor without anyone having made an effort to clean it up, papers and general rubbish all around. It all made even Paul itch with the need for cleaning, and usually he would rather just stick his eyes close to Thisbe’s claws than even think about such things.

“No, John doesn’t want me here, ever. Bad for breathin’ an’ all that,” he chirped, and Alfred frowned at him, still in a clear state of confusion.

Paul nodded towards a chair that was empty of food and alcohol.

“Sit,” he said, and his tone suddenly morphed into something he’d use in extreme situations at school — he wasn’t around for joking today. “I’ve got things to tell.”

“Who’re ye to push in my house an’ boss me ‘round, ‘ey la’?” Alfred tried straightening his back to maybe seem more threatening and in control of the room, mirroring Paul’s cross of his arms with his own, and Paul gave him a grin that could only be followed a cold-blooded murder. Which Paul was here for.

“The father of your grandkid. Now _sit down,_ mate.”

Alfred sat down, looking absolutely dumbfounded. Oh, Paul was enjoying _every_ second of this. He had … he had waited for _twelve years_ _…_ had wanted to do this for _so_ long, and was now feeling simply exhilarated over standing here, in front of John ’s father, _finally_ able to just speak his _mind._

He’d been wanting to do this since _1993!!_

“Me’n John are adoptin’ a kid. A boy,” he started, watching Alfred’s eyes widen, the man’s mouth opening slightly. For a moment his expression was exactly like John’s when the application had gone through, and it told Paul that he was on the right track. Yes. Good.

“I’m sure you’re aware we’ve been goin’ through the process, an’ that our application was accepted,” he said and supported his palms on the back of a chair, leaning his weight against it. Alfred nodded mutely. “Well, we got a file on one child a week ago. If all goes as planned, we’ll have him with us in six weeks, give or take.”

He let his eyes drill into Alfred’s face, taking in every cue on the man’s feelings. Paul was an expert at reading _John,_ and it was interesting to see that there were similarities in the way expressions flicked on both Lennons’ faces — although John’s were much more familiar, much warmer, more joyful in general, much easier to comprehend…

_There._ A small flash of caring, of anticipation and happiness over the news. The flash started growing, and soon Alfred was looking happier than Paul had ever seen him be — the man was actually _smiling,_ which looked weird in that specific way of someone smiling who _never_ did.

“I’m… so I’ll be a grandfather,” he finally said, and Paul felt a small surge of relief; his plan was hanging onto getting this feeling out of Alfred.

“Oh, yeah, for sure,” he said in a light tone that became dead serious with his next words, shot out mercilessly without even a breath stolen in between.

“Under one condition.”

Alfred looked up at him, the smile disappearing from his face. replaced by a frown, and Paul stared at him with an unrelenting, unapologetic, and _scalding_ gaze. _This was it. This was the moment._

“You stop those calls.”

The man sitting in the chair opened his mouth as if to say something, but Paul wasn’t finished. He was going to make _sure_ Alfred knew _exactly_ what he was talking about.

“Those calls where you call ‘im up and verbally abuse ‘im? Those things you leave in our answering machine — the things I hear? An’ then I watch the love of me life crumblin’ down in front of me eyes because of those messages? _Those_ calls. They _stop._ _”_

Alfred tried to say something again, but no, Paul was starting to get up to speed, clutching at the back of the chair with both hands, filling with rage as he thought about John’s tears, and about the man’s hesitant words of _“your parents know you the best, don’t they? So… what if he’s right?”,_ and the way John would hold onto him like Paul was the last thing keeping him together. And the man that had caused all that was sitting _right_ in front of Paul, and he was finally going to put an end to it all _now._

“You— do you have any idea what kind of pain you’ve caused ‘im? Jus’ ‘cos you’re insecure yourself, you’re jealous of ‘is life, ye think ye know _better—_ how is it that you blame _him_ for all the misfortunes in yer life?? John’s done nothing— _nothing_ to receive this treatment from you—” he took in a deep breath, almost shaking now in his anger. He’d have to stay calm, to stand above Alfred, mentally and physically, and he needed to lay down his ultimatum.

“He’s _afraid_ of yer calls,” he said, voice seething while he did his best of remaining calm on the outside. Alfred seemed to have frozen in place.

Good. Paul wasn’t letting him run.

“He’s afraid of his own _father._ How’s _that_ his fault?” he asked, wetting his lips and holding a small pause, as he would during a presentation after dropping a significant rhetorical question. “Now, I wanted to rush over here and kick yer fuckin’ _brain_ out the moment I first heard about that _abuse_ — John didn’t let me, an’ I think ye wouldn’t have listened. But now… I’m givin’ you a chance to stop them, at _once._ No more such calls, or you’re _out of our lives._ _”_

He narrowed his eyes and Alfred turned his head away, apparently unable to take his scorching stare straight on. A part of Paul triumphed in that and enjoyed the sight immensely — he had wanted to box the man’s head in the first time they’d met, and now, getting to see this… it was purely delicious. He had _yearned_ for this moment to come.

He inhaled deeply, tilting his head as his anger seeped into his voice, wrath filling his words. He would leave no guessing space for Al to doubt whether he was being _absolutely serious_ or not.

“One more call like that, and you’re _never_ seeing our kid. An’ I promise, _I don_ _’t forget._ I don’t _forgive._ Ten years from now, twenty — you call, say one slur, an’ you’ll have a fuckin’ restrainin’ order hangin’ above yer head, based on traumatisin’, damagin’ an’ _life-long_ _abuse._ _”_

Silence fell.

Paul didn’t let go of his stare, hot and cold tremors running up his spine, almost feeling a bit high as the blood rushing through his veins started filling with _satisfaction._

Alfred looked down at his hands, then at the bottles on the table. Then his gaze moved down to the floor before sliding back to his hands again, and Paul could see his fingers shaking.

Served the bastard _right._

It took him a few moments, but eventually Alfred lifted his head, meeting Paul’s eyes, and there was shame in his expression.

Paul straightened his back and crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his head in a silent acknowledgement of listening what the man had to say. He’d have to give the old man a few concessions after the lecture he’d just given. Question time, children!

“I— it’s—” Alfred croaked, and then motioned towards the bottles faintly. “It’s— it’s the drink, I—”

“If it’s the drink, then you stop drinkin’,” Paul interrupted him, his tone freezing. “Drink’s not an excuse. I’ve heard that before from yer _son,_ while he was _sobbing_ over the things ye’d said. He’s — you’re his _dad._ He… he needed so much _more_ from you.”

“I… I know,” Alfred sighed, pressing his palm over his face, rubbing at his nose with clear exhaustion. “I wasn’t— I was never ready. To be a father, that is.”

“It’s never too late,” Paul hissed. “Ye’re jus’ makin’ up excuses instead of makin’ real change! This is your _only_ chance. I’m not givin’ you another.”

“Ye— he—” Alfred hesitated, letting his hand drop. “I… Why’s ‘e… why’s ‘e still in contact with me then, eh la’? Ye could’ve cut me off years back, with the… the attitude ye got there.”

“John doesn’t want to,” Paul snapped, and it was as if something heavy and deafening descended upon the small kitchen at those words. Alfred blinked at him, a frown inching deep into his forehead as he tilted his head in a silent plea for elaboration.

“He doesn’t want to,” Paul’s voice cracked before he managed to collect himself, his heart breaking a little at the thought of John caring, caring _so_ much that he wouldn’t want to cut off even such a poisonous person Alfred was, because Al was his _father._ _He_ _’s shit, but ye gotta give ‘im a chance, Paul. It’s the drink._

“He’s always, _always_ wanted your approval. Part of him has given up, the other half never stops yearning for it. John _wants_ to have a good relationship with you, _wants_ to be able to call ye up an’ tell you how it’s goin’ on in our lives, because _he_ _’s such a damn caring person—_ while you, _you_ _…_ you don’t care for _shit—_ _”_

“I do.”

Paul paused, aiming a quizzical and suspicious look at the older man, who was staring at his hands again, resting his elbows on the table. He looked sad and ashamed — but also like he was still in a bit of denial, in a true Lennonesque way that was very familiar to Paul. If Paul had to guess, he’d say that Alfred had some sort of an inner battle going on: whether to kick Paul out of the house, or actually do as he was being told.

On both occasions, well, it would definitely be a first. Any scenario was a win for Paul though, because if Alfred kicked him out, _he_ _’d_ kick the man out — of their lives. And if he did as Paul told him to do…

Well, maybe John would get a small bit of that father he’d always wanted and needed. It would probably never be ideal, never easy, never as fulfilling as a real father-son relationship, but… it would be better than this. _Anything_ would be better than this.

Even living completely without the Lennon senior.

“I do care,” Alfred repeated in a much quieter and gruffer voice this time, starting to fidget with his fingers. “I— ‘e’s me son. O’ course I care. I’m… I jus’ never learnt how to… be a proper dad, an’ then it all went into the gutter with the drinks — he must’ve been three, the kidder. Real proper shame, ‘e’s a good lad. I do… love ‘im, ‘e’s me blood, like. But… I can’t say it to ‘im, now can I?”

Paul stared at Alfred with his arms locked across his chest, jaw tense as he gritted his teeth together.

“Well, then,” he said after a moment’s silence had passed and it became evident that Alfred had exhausted his emotional word bank for the day, “learn to say it to our kid. An’ maybe one day you’ll be able to say it to John as well.”

He waited for Alfred to nod hesitantly before leaning forward, forcing one last piercing glare at the man. Al didn’t seem to be able to look away from this one.

“So, we got a deal? No more drunken phone calls… _none —_ an’ in exchange you get to see your grandchild.”

Alfred was quiet for a long while, finally turning his eyes away from Paul’s after the stare was becoming too intense even for Paul’s liking (and he’d had twelve years of practise with one other Lennon, who was the master at soul-penetrating glares). His next words were quiet, so quiet that Paul almost missed them.

“What’s ‘is name? The kid’s?”

“David,” Paul said, unable to stop the flood of eager anticipation that filled him to the very core of his being upon saying that name, and he thought back to the photo that— oh, right! He’d almost _forgotten._

“Here he is,” he said and stepped forward, bringing a small printed photo out from the inner pocket of his jacket. He placed it on the table in front of Alfred, watching the man’s reactions carefully.

“He’s three, is from France,” he said, and Alfred let out a small hum of acknowledgement, staring at the picture. The same expression as before was back — the barely believing look of wonder and happiness, and wow, wouldn’t it be unfortunate if Al never got to meet this kid?

Paul would make sure it never came to pass, if the man broke the deal. It was a high time for Alfred to learn that Paul was _ruthless_ when it came to protecting his family.

“Can I keep the photo?” Alfred asked after a moment of Paul basking in the glory of having (almost) completed the goal (with a small bit still missing), and he nodded at the man. He’d printed out photos for all the grandparents, George and Ringo included. He had given one to Thisbe and Pyramus as well, and they had torn it apart. It was good to know that David was warmly welcomed into the family.

“So, the deal?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, and Alfred let out a small, displeased huff before nodding gruffly.

“Ye’re not givin’ me no choice, la’,” he said, and Paul almost high-fived himself. Yes. _Yes._

“You’re right — shouldn’t be a _choice_ to end an abusive relationship with one’s son,” he chirped and gave a quick grin to Alfred before getting serious again.

“Oh, also one thing— John never, _ever_ gets to hear about this. _Ever._ He won’t know about this visit,” Paul directed a stern glare at the older man before starting to walk towards the front door. Alfred scoffed, standing up to follow him.

“What, so ‘e won’t know ye’re proper mean behind that pretty face o’ yours, gettin’ involved in ‘is relationships like that — forcin’ other people into doin’ what _ye_ want, like a proper little _manipulator,_ like??”

Paul stopped at the door, turning to look at Alfred who stood in the small hallway, looking pathetic and old and tired, the only sign of him caring about this whole thing at all being the way he clutched at the photo of David in his hand.

“No. I want ‘im to think you stopped those calls out of the good in your heart,” Paul said and pointedly raised one graceful eyebrow before stepping out.

“Wouldn’t you want ‘im to think so as well?” he called over his shoulder, and then made his way over to his car with a shit-eating grin spreading on his lips, satisfaction rolling over him in big, smug waves.

In your fucking _face,_ Al!

***~**~***

“Mate, I swear to God, if ye don’t tell me why ye’re bein’ so smug—” John pleaded at the humming, satisfied back of his fiancé.

“You’ll see in time, love,” Paul called and breezed into the kitchen, heading towards the freezer. “Now, ice cream!!”

“Paul!!” John huffed, making a small desperate motion with his hands. “What’s goin’ on?!”

Paul gave him the smuggest, most self-satisfied smiles of all time, and whipped around to face John with a box of ice cream in his hands, heading towards the table after he’d acquired a spoon. A whole box?? A _whole box???_

“What?” John said helplessly. “What? What— what?”

Paul hummed, then cackled shortly in what could only be described as evil. And then he started humming again, even the sound of it making it clear that right here sat a pleased man.

It looked like Paul was vibrating from complacence, and John was Afraid.

“You’ll see in time,” Paul said again, absolutely-fucking-satisfied with himself, and licked at the spoon with the largest grin John had ever seen on his face.

***~**~***

_ End of June, 2005  _

A child was having a real fit next to his mother in front of the sweets, pointing at a certain chocolate bar, screaming and crying and jumping up and down while fisting the mother’s jacket. The young woman sighed with an exhausted expression and collected the screeching boy up into her arms while calling for her other child, a girl that was slightly older than the boy.

John grimaced at the sound of the crying kid, turning to Paul who was currently picking up _his_ preferred chocolate bar over _John_ _’s._

“Think we’re able to handle that?” he asked and jerked his head towards the retreating backs of the desperate mother and her howling pack.

Paul raised an eyebrow, deliberately pulling the chocolate bar up and high before dropping it into their half-filled trolley so that John _definitely_ noticed it not being _his_ favourite.

“I certainly hope so,” he said while sounding completely innocent, and John huffed with a roll of his eyes.

“Beware, or I’ll start makin’ that noise,” he said and turned back around to catch the final glimpse of the woman and her kids.

It seemed that lately he had been noticing every child in his line of sight, and each one of them reminded him of David, of his smile (from another photo they’d been sent that had Paul cooing and John crying like a sissy) that seemed to brighten up the whole room. John knew they’d made the right choice with the kid; that smile had a tendency to melt his heart, for Paul had a similar one, all cutesy with a wrinkled nose and hamster cheeks.

He wasn’t sure what they’d do if they weren’t “compatible” with the kid. John was becoming so imprinted on the idea of David already that he knew he’d need a mourning period if the adoption didn’t come to pass. On the other hand he knew there was a good possibility for that, starting from France suddenly saying a big, fat NO. If they did, there really was nothing they could do.

According to Karen, it was already going to be literal hell getting to adopt Dave. Luckily for John, Paul was doing most of the paper work, being more up to the difficult language used in the documents. He also knew French for a bit, and so he could double-check everything that came their way. He still shared every bit of information with John, but… it was a different matter altogether whether John actually _listened._

“I love it when you scream,” Paul said as a passing comment while starting to push the trolley past John, the cat food aisle being their final stop.

John did a double-take and squinted at his fiancé.

“I think there’s a time an’ place for _that_ kinda screamin’,” he said and Paul laughed, quickly shooting him a wink over his shoulder.

“That time an’ place is _tonight,_ so hurry up!” he called and _that,_ if something made John forget all about the darned chocolate. Which — he realised too late — was Paul’s plan all along.

John went on to collecting the cats’ usual dry food bags and cans of wet food while Paul waited next to the trolley, arms crossed over his chest as he regarded John quietly with a suddenly thoughtful gaze. John gave him a questioning one once coming over with the cat food, and Paul surprised him by starting to chew on his lower lip.

Oh. So he was thinking about something _serious._

“I was wonderin’…” he started, and John waited patiently with a small nervous breeze blowing through him — always did when Paul had something serious to say, because who knew _what_ would come out of the man's mouth? John still feared that Paul wanted to get a goldfish, and then one of the cats would eat it because _of course one of them would,_ and then Paul would cry and yell and blame John because the cats were inarguably John’s babies, and then Paul would eventually pack his bags and leave because _I loved that goldfish, John!! How could you do this to me??_

(Then again, after telling that particular scenario when they were having a lads’ night with George and Ringo at the cottage, and after Paul had almost pissed himself by laughing so hard, John was quite sure _this_ fear wouldn’t come to pass any time soon… As long as Paul found him to be more hilarious than the goldfish.)

“Yeah?” he asked after Paul had been quiet for a suspiciously long time, springing up more destructive scenarios involving the cats and several animals Paul might want to introduce into the family.

“…One of us is gonna have to stay home with him,” Paul said with a careful tone, eyes sweeping over John before the man started avoiding his gaze, frustration evident in his expression for some reason. It was the perfect picture of Paul having his defences up, with his arms crossed over his chest as a barricade on top of everything, and John couldn’t help but feel confused.

Until realisation hit him.

_One of them had to—_

“Wait — you— you want _me_ to stay home with the kid?” he asked, not really able to believe the words that had left his mouth. But Paul’s tone, his reluctance to look at John, the frustration — Paul wanted _John_ to stay at _home?_ Raising a _child??_

“You’d bring _that_ up _here_ of all places?” John more or less hissed, and Paul looked around quickly, making sure that there weren’t any people at a hearing range. Oh — John saw exactly what he was doing. Paul wasn’t the sort to blurt out things like these just whenever and wherever; he had clearly chosen the place carefully, making sure that no one would pay attention to them, while keeping John from going into a full outburst. If they were home when this discussion took place… John couldn’t say how he’d have reacted. Probably much louder at least.

“You can’t be serious,” he said numbly after Paul’s silence didn’t seem to be ceasing, a confirmation in itself. “Paul, ye can’t— you _know_ I’ll screw up—”

“Oh, jeez— zip it _up_ with that _crap_ already,” Paul interrupted him, narrowing his eyes. “We talked about this! I _know_ you’ll be a great dad! I’m jus’— urgh!” he sucked in a breath and John dropped the cat food on top of all their groceries with a thump before taking a hold of the trolley’s edge with both hands to ground himself on something. Wow. He certainly hadn’t seen _this_ discussion coming up on their final shopping trip before leaving to France next week.

“They might ask, like” Paul said, slipping for a moment into his old Scouse accent that was being mostly washed away by his English studies and current teaching job. The Scouse tended to come forth whenever he was upset or otherwise emotional (or, alternatively, with George), and that usually spoke volumes. It was another of John’s ways of telling just _how_ strongly Paul was feeling, one of which the man himself was completely unaware.

Paul ran a frustrated hand through his hair and then dropped both of his palms to the handle of the trolley, finally meeting John’s eyes in the search for cooperation. “An’ we gotta have the answer ready — ye know it.”

John pressed his lips together tightly, squeezing the trolley’s metallic edge for a few seconds before letting go with a sigh, and now it was his turn to cross his arms over his chest. It was almost funny how much they mirrored each other in these days, but then again… They had been together for over ten years by now.

With that thought in mind, John forced himself to calm down, and inhaled deeply with his eyes closed before levelling Paul with a firm stare.

“So why me? We both know — an’ it ain’t crap — that you’re _much_ better with kids.”

“I want to!” Paul groaned, shaking his head. “I wanna stay home, but— but I _just_ got the job, I _can_ _’t_ take a long leave now. We were lucky enough that I’m on a holiday _now._ Ye’ve been workin’ on the same thing for _years,_ they won’t mind if ye take a parental leave for a while!”

John had to admit that Paul had a point. It was a whole different situation between them, because while John had been working on a steady job as a layout designer for a culture magazine since 1999, Paul had only started a year ago in his current position as an English teacher in a secondary school, and… It was true. He _couldn_ _’t_ take time off now. And he got paid so much more than John — God, they didn’t have a choice, did they?

John knew he didn’t mind looking after the kid just for the fact of _looking after a kid._ He minded it because he was just so … so _afraid_ of not knowing how to do things. Of being a bad influence. Of making the kid hate him. Paul had berated him on those thoughts already, had sat him down and read him the riot act, and John had promised to try and change his opinions on himself — but goddammit it was _hard!_

“Ye know I don’t mind bein’ at home, like,” he said, trying to soften his tone to dilute the situation. He knew now _why_ exactly Paul was looking frustrated — he _wanted_ to be home with the kid, but couldn’t. John thought, if their positions were reversed, he’d feel the same. “I don’t— really, I’ll be glad to stay with ‘im for a while — it’s nothin’ to do with, with whether I care about… about my work more than about the kid, really, it’s got nothin’ to do with that.”

Paul nodded, the tension in his shoulders disappearing little by little now that John wasn’t on the immediate verge of an explosion. John let out a sigh, his own body relaxing and arms ending up hanging rather loose over his chest.

“I wanna be with the kid. I just…” he offered Paul a small grimace, and the man looked at him sadly, mouth twisting into an unpleasant line.

“You jus’ fear for _‘im,”_ he said softly, and John nodded, suddenly feeling like the animal food aisle was too narrow, there wasn’t enough air, and he needed to get out of this shop before he blacked out. He was gonna ruin it all, he _knew_ it, and they would never even get to keep the kid — _screw_ the possibility of them not being compatible at first. They were gonna come home with David, spend three weeks with him, and then John would _ruin_ it, one way or another, and they’d take David _away—_ but only after both Paul and John had fallen in love with him, with the _real_ him, without being able to go back to the life as it was before. _God._

Paul’s hand reached out and curled into the crook of his elbow, his fingers pressing gently against the skin there. He had leaned forward, staring as deep into John’s eyes as he could (and man, it was deep!), his hazel eyes having turned dark brown under the harsh strip lighting of the shop.

John took in a shuddering breath, and Paul smiled at him, trying to look as reassuring as possible.

“Y’know, as Mum told me after _I_ had panicked over this same subject like, two weeks ago, like— she said, ‘that’s what every parent fears’. You’re already thinkin’ about that — you’re not in the belief that you’ll be the best dad ever, an’ with the fear comes the effort of doin’ your best, y’know. Do you think Al ever thought the way you do now?”

John stared at Paul, and slowly shook his head.

“I don’t think he gave a damn, love,” he said quietly. “You _know_ he doesn’t.”

“I know he _does,_ _”_ Paul’s voice was firm, and even though they’d had the exact same discussion many times over the years — with the exact same words, now there was some newly found confidence in Paul’s expression. Somehow John could now believe him a tad more than during their previous goings over the same subject.

“ _But,”_ Paul continued, “ye’re not _him,_ John, _baby—_ you’re hung up on the idea that he screwed ye up, that you’re this fucked up person, but—”

“God, can we do this somewhere else than in the bloody _Asda??_ _”_ John groaned, feeling suspiciously like something wet and hot was making its way up from his throat towards his eyes.

Paul let out a slightly choked laugh, and then nodded.

“Right. We’ll do it in the car.”

“Ye’re destroyin’ me,” John muttered as Paul started pushing the trolley forward with a smile, not forgetting to run a hand softly over John’s chest upon passing him, the gesture full of affection and love.

John released the lock of his arms over his chest and with the palm of his hand rubbed at the spot where Paul’s touch still tingled, staring at the man’s retreating back thoughtfully.

He wondered whether he would really enjoy the life of a housewife, because wasn’t that what he was about to become?

Eh, whatever. It was only for a small bit anyway.

***~**~***

“What I’m trying to say,” Paul’s voice was soft as he leaned towards John inside the car that was resting in the park spot, his right hand on the wheel, the other squeezing John’s fingers tightly, the feeling of their palms fitting together familiar and safe, “is that you _can_ _’t_ fuck up when you _care_ so much. You can’t _be_ a fuck-up, ‘cos the fuck-ups I know don’t have half the heart you do. You’re… ready to drop yer fuckin’ _job_ for this kid, an’ ye think you’d be a bad father?”

John hummed faintly, staring out at the parking with a blurred look in his eyes, not really taking in anything he might have seen.

“It’s not a logical fear,” he finally said after a long silence, and Paul sighed with a small nod, having become the embodiment of compassion and love the moment they’d sat down and pulled the doors closed.

“Mate, I’m _so_ afraid it’s all gonna go to hell. There are so many things that can go wrong,” the man confessed and John turned to look at him sharply, frowning at the words.

Paul smiled at him, and it was soft and reassuring, honest and true, as was the stroke of his thumb over the back of John’s hand.

“But none of those horror images include _you_ muckin’ up,” he murmured, and John blinked away the tears that threatened to fall before leaning in for a small kiss of gratitude.

***~**~***

Paul dumped a 10kg bag of chicken-flavoured dry food onto the counter in the utility room, George leaning over to take a good look at it.

“So you’ll put this into one of the bowls in the kitchen,” Paul said, motioning towards the kitchen, “one full bowl, each morning, they’ll eat it during the day on their own. An’ then in the morning and in the evening you feed ‘em canned food—” he went on to get one of the canned cat foods out, thrusting it into George’s hands. “I wrote all the instructions on some paper, which is somewhere in the house, so follow that an’ you’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be fine,” George nodded. “Not the first time I’m stayin’ to look after the lot, like.”

“And definitely not the last,” Paul acknowledged this with a nod, and they both chuckled.

“Just make sure ye feed ‘em right,” he then raised a warning eyebrow. “John’ll come after your head otherwise.”

“Goes without saying,” George muttered and they giggled together over the shared amusement of John’s blind love for the cats.

They succumbed into silence afterwards and Paul leaned against the counter, the small of his back pressing against the marble surface. George examined the can in his hands before placing it on the counter with a soft clack, before he pulled back to cross his arms over his chest, looking pondering.

“How’re ye feeling?” he asked, voice slightly quieter now. Paul chuckled, shaking his head in response.

“Giddy. Nervous. Fuckin’ _terrified._ _”_

George laughed and nodded again, grinning at Paul without an effort of hiding the enthusiasm in his expression.

“Ye’re gonna be a _dad._ _”_

“Oh God, _yes,_ _”_ Paul squealed and suddenly it became too much to hold within, the feeling of happiness rolling out in the form of a small excited jump that ended up with him hugging George tightly, the man holding onto him equally strongly.

“Can’t believe it,” George’s voice was slightly muffled by Paul’s shoulder and he laughed, elated and euphoric, drunk in the thought of soon having his own _child._

“What’re ye two doin’ here, huggin’ like proper bloody poofters, like,” John’s nasal voice drawled from the kitchen, and Paul flipped up a middle finger in the direction of that sound before opening his eyes, unable to stop the happy grin that spread on his lips upon seeing John looking at them through the doorway with his lips pressed tightly together in an attempt of not starting to laugh.

“Wha’, is my boyfriend a _poof?_ _”_ Ringo’s voice came from further in the kitchen, and Paul and George separated in an order to join the two in the bigger room, all four bursting into laughter after taking in each other’s faces for a moment. The atmosphere was warm and light; full of expectation and excitement, and for a good reason — John and Paul were travelling to London tomorrow, and would fly to Paris the next day. George had been tasked with looking after the house and the cats, to which the man had agreed to easily enough. Ringo had groaned and moaned about having to run the farm on his own while the harvest was nearly starting, but his father had promised to lend a hand, crossing the few-mile distance from Bala to his old farm every day.

Paul came over to John and wrapped his arms around the man, squeezing him tightly into a loving embrace.

“Well would ye look at that, now _I_ _’m_ a poof,” John commented into his ear and he started shaking against his fiancé with silent laughter while John put one arm around him, stroking his back with his thumb gently.

“I feel like we’re stretchin’ the definition a little,” Paul chuckled and John snorted a laugh, smiling at him widely as they parted, John’s arm remaining around him. Paul let his own hand rest on John’s shoulder, relishing the closeness and the feel of the man’s body locked against him, and turned to look at George and Ringo. Both had made themselves comfortable at the kitchen table, Ringo having lifted his feet on top of it casually, leaning back in his chair.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he started, to which John made a dramatical face and George raised his eyebrows just for a fraction, managing to look disinterested and disheartening at the same time (Ringo shot him a small, amused smile), “that we should all get mobile phones, yeah.”

His sentence was met by both silence and even more raised eyebrows.

“Well, y’know,” Ringo shrugged, “I could talk to George from the field—”

“Good idea! Let’s do it,” George said immediately, and they all chuckled. John and Paul glanced at each other and then pulled away from their half-embrace, sitting down at the table to join their two friends.

“—And I think, with the kid… ‘s all the better to, y’know, be able to call whenever, wherever, yeah,” Ringo finished and looked around expectantly.

John and Paul turned to look at each other, while George and Ringo did the same, silent conversations passing on both sides of the table.

“…I’ve been thinkin’ about it,” John finally said. “It’d make the work a lot easier. I’ve been puttin’ it off, ‘cos they’re expensive... My Mac already swallowed all me poor money a year ago.”

“Isn’t it possible to read emails from mobile phones in these days?” Paul asked, and they ooh-ed in unison, for a moment basking in the wonder of the amazing new technology.

“Okay, that’s it, I’m getting one, I am,” Ringo said to the amusement of others; the lad didn’t use email at all. The farm hadn’t even had a computer before George bought a cheap one few years back — and Ringo most likely didn’t even know how to move the mouse. New inventions like mobile phones and computers entered the remote countryside of North Wales at a rather slow pace.

“It’d be a good time for buyin’ mobile phones, don’t you think?” Paul looked to John, who frowned with his chin supported against his knuckles, elbows resting on the table. “You could always reach me at work, if there’s a problem.”

“Yeah, sure. But I don’t think we’ll have time for lookin’ into that, until we’re back from France.”

“Ye think ye got time after that? Oh, boy.” George grinned, and they all laughed in agreement. Paul had to admit it was probably true — hopefully! _Hopefully_ they were a lot busier then than now.

“It’s all about to change,” he muttered quietly and John shot him a small smile, winking with his expression that of pure happiness.

Yeah. It was about to change.

*~**~*

“It’s a good thing you know French _a bit,_ _”_ John said, a slight tremor in his voice as few days later they stood in front of a French block of flats, Karen’s French adoption agency friend having entered the building to check that… everyone inside was ready for meeting them. Paul was standing on the street with his hands buried deep into his pockets, shifting on his feet constantly, looking like he was about to bounce all the way through the few clouds that adorned the Parisian sky.

They had arrived to France a few days ago, having rented a furnished flat for 600£ for the whole month. It was small and crappy and they had to sleep in an equally crappy sofa-bed that took half of the space in the tiny room when spread out, and the water from the shower never quite reached what could be called “warm”, but it would suffice.

(John had muttered that morning upon getting up from the sofa-bed of death “I’m already ready to go through hell for this kid”, to which Paul had replied “that’s the right attitude” while looking like a truck had run over him, still shivering from his morning shower.)

“Mmh,” Paul hummed in reply, and even from that small noise John could tell how jittery the man currently was. He knew it, because _he felt the same._ God. In a few moments their life would _change._

“Are you…” Paul started then in a voice that was barely above a breath, stilling in his small movements as he met John’s eyes, his expression fearful. John frowned at him. “Are you… still absolutely sure you want this? ‘Cos— ‘cos I… I _can_ _’t_ turn away after this, I know it, it’s— I’ve been wantin’ it for so long, and— are ye _absolutely sure??_ _”_

“Paul—” John said, ready to swear his heart out that _yes,_ he wouldn’t have come to bloody _France_ to spend a month in that tiny teeny flat just for _this_ were he not absolutely serious with this… He wouldn’t have already applied for _18_ weeks of parental leave from work were he not _serious —_ but right at that moment the front door to the building in front of them opened and the French Adoption Agency Friend (John couldn’t remember her name, but it was a French name) motioned at them from the doorway.

Both men froze to their spots, and for a small moment John felt like turning around and running away, just from the sheer nerves that were dropped on his shoulders right there and then.

“Everything’s in order,” the social worker said, smiling at them in a clear attempt of calming them down. “Everyone is ready — they know who you are, and they are waiting.”

Paul and John looked at each other, then at the door.

John closed his eyes and breathed in slowly, mentally shaking himself. It was okay. It was _okay_ — it was just going to be ground-shaking. World-changing.

He thought about the sound of a child calling for his father, and… he _wanted_ it.

There was silence in the world, a pause where everyone just seemed to still and inhale… and then John stepped forward, passing Paul on his way towards the door, heart hammering against his ribcage like it were his last minutes on earth.

“ _I’m sure,”_ he murmured quickly under his breath as he stepped to Paul’s side, and reached out to give a small reassuring squeeze to the man’s wrist before tugging him along. “Let’s meet our kid, pal.”

Paul followed him, and entwined their fingers together with a shuddering sigh of relief.

 

**TBC in Part 2...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please dont kill me for that clear and blatant cliffhanger
> 
> **NOTE:** I want to make clear that I have never adopted anyone, and as such am not privy to the whole process. I've done as much research as I could, and tried to be loyal to the real world, but I took a few artistic shortcuts to make the plot easier to write (and more manageable in general). If there are _dire_ errors you notice, please tell me, but keep in mind it's a work of fiction! (Which I hope you enjoyed...)
> 
> I have a Protective!Paul kink and I'm not ashamed to admit it.
> 
> Till next time, pumpkins! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! More is coming soon! Remember that if you liked the story, even simple, short comments are the best way to show that! ;) I'd like to hear what you think! (they also give me a motivation boost so... the chapters get done faster, haha) 
> 
> Also, if you have any ideas for future chapters/what you'd like to read, just say it! You can also message me on [tumblr](http://chut-je-dors.tumblr.com)! For MORE (background stories, headcanons etc), [go here](http://chut-je-dors.tumblr.com/tagged/5%20thomas%20lane)


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